


BREAK

by BookofLife



Series: Rise [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: A S2 AU, F/M, Gen, Holy Moses, How Felicity Smoak could/would go from sitting in a Foundry to wearing a mask, I own only the story idea, Starting with a two parter, The night of the undertaking, Tommy Lives, derived a little from the 1.5 comic, leading into a series, nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-13 04:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: Felicity shut down the second earthquake machine (because of course she left the Foundry to do it because wasting time leading an old fashioned detective through a series of complicated do-hickeys was Oliver's ridiculous idea, not hers), but being alone in the Glades at night, during a catastrophe, wasn't the safest thing to have happen.Sometimes you suffer for doing the right thing.





	1. All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys:   
> This is part one of two which should be up very soon.  
> The next story after this is a multi-chapter detailing Felicity's rise from unknown IT girl to heroine in her own right.I assure you that, though this involves how Felicity could become a MASKED vigilante, it doesn't mean that I'm taking her out of the Foundry.  
> The next story after this also involves how she and Oliver could have hooked up long before they were due to. And yes: HOOKED UP. Not, fallen in love. The next one? It's a very naughty S2 re-imagining. So I hope you stick around.  
> The next story will be a tad lighter.  
> Please lave a review, because they feed me!

**The Night of the Undertaking**

_I didn’t think I’d be doing_ this _a year ago._

A year ago, Felicity Smoak had been a _little_ different.

Not so much in the way of morals or interests: she just hadn’t been very courageous. Daring. Not the way she _used_ to be when even a wardrobe change had to scream ORIGINAL BITCH.

Bravery was different to courage; she’d always been brave. You _had_ to be when you were Felicity Smoak: when every _single_ moment of your life was a fight for respect, for livelihood, and for-

Love? _This isn’t a sitcom and there were all kinds of love._

But courage implied a certain way of living that she hadn’t touched since before she turned 20. When she was an attitude dispenser and _not_ an invisible IT girl with no social life.

Once, courage and audacity had run her ego down a path that had lost her something precious: her first love. _The road to hell truly is paved with good intentions_. Her initial attempt at heroism, destroyed by what her own greatness, hoist by her own petard - it wasn’t ego to state that she was, _is_ , a genius - and what it had brought out in others. Rude awakenings teaching her lessons, coaching her to deal with life and all its brutal realities, alone. Courage had a cost.

And without a mission, courage felt empty.

Although many would argue this ‘non-courage’ in a woman who’d travelled friendless from Vegas to MIT, and then to Starling City in order to make something of herself. A woman who’d paid in sleep and sweat and nerves for her two master’s degrees, whose fingers could tap dance their way into secret, secure government facilities just to see if she could… and she’d applied for a job she could perform in her sleep.

If courage had a cost, so did fear.

A year ago, Felicity had simply _been_. She’d paid her bills, ate food, slept, worked, rinse, and repeat; she’d existed.

Thank God for Oliver Queen.

He woke her up, walking into her cubicle that day.

As such, colliding with Detective Quentin Lance one very late night in May, 2013 - because a genuine earthquake machine was set to bevel one third of the City and she was also one third of the only three people in said city who had a hope in hell’s chance of preventing this catastrophe - would _not_ have been on top of Felicity’s list of to-do’s 7 months ago.

Her shriek as their backs bumped could have set off every dog in the city.

“Jesus Christ!” And the detective was _definitely_ still of a tetchier disposition; more so in a time of crisis. “What-!”

She wasn’t listening. _It is_ scary _-dark down there…_ as if there was such a thing as a scarier kind of darkness. _There is and I’m looking at it_.

Peering into the entrance to the underground, it was somehow darker than the night surrounding them - and she wasn’t afraid of the dark: she knew the green leather shadow that haunted it - and with the city in chaos, it felt so much worse than all her previous nights in the Foundry combined. _Pretty sure I witnessed an attempted murder on my way here, which is, you know; lovely._ It had been halted by the horde of terrified citizens trying to leave the city, but it made her feel all kinds of safe and secure, for sure _._ She wasn’t used to this kind of exposure: she was ‘home base’; she stayed in the Foundry.

_How can this be happening?_

Less than an hour ago, Moira Queen broke the news, live on WEBG: at midnight this night, an artificial earthquake would be generated with the intent to wipe out the Glades and everyone in it.

This was real life. _This is_ my _life._

So - in her ankle boots, her pretty white shirt that was _so_ not field regulatory standard attire under a black hooded sip-up - she was so very glad she’d made it time; glad she’d caught up with the good detective before he’d gone into the super creepy and entrance to the old, abandoned, underground subway tunnel and _Oh, I don’t want to go down there._

 _Mimble-wimble._ There could be spiders. Giant, radioactive spiders that can detect bottle blond hair through concrete.

There could be a creepy serial killer. A creepy serial killer who liked to hack down bottle blond IT technicians. Or cannibals, who enjoyed the taste of bottle blond-

_Slow down heart rate, stupid pulse._

Or they could get trapped down there because of a deteriorated support structure and-

_Stop trembling!_

Freaking. Out. _I am Captain SpongeBob without his square pants_. A wet rag. _Heroism at its best, ladies and gentlemen._

She didn’t know this yet, but; it was _exactly_ that. Heroic.

But what she thought she was, was WEAK. Capitols. No alternative. To take backs. She was who she was-

“Hey!”

In her peripheral, she saw him twisting round to look at her - his jacket whipping against her arm - and could practically feel him scowling down at the top of her head as she stared with hunched shoulders into the unknown; as if it would help him understand _why_ there was a diminutive, glasses wearing IT girl bumping into him when everyone else was running for cover (and why she looked like she was about to throw up on his shoes). “You- wait, Miss _Smoak_?”

Like, _you? Here? Tonight? YOU?_

She understood the feeling completely. “Good to see you again, Detective.” And her voice was only a little shaky, _success_ , as she looked up at him and away from the doom and gloom.

“What are you doing out here?” Eyes narrowing, he seemed out of breath and more than a little out of his depth. “It’s too dangerous-”

“Trust me,” she interrupted, “I am questioning my own sanity right now and it isn’t like I hadn’t noticed.” She flapped a hand at the rise just above them leading into the Glades.

Also? Their voices were raised because there were police sirens, car alarms, screams, flames licking at the sky and the odd bang-crash-wallop of approaching vandals taking advantage of the anarchy to let loose their previously inhibited selves, to contend with. It says something about the people in a city when an encroaching disaster unleashes a crime wave.

It was why, in her belief, the universe had sent Oliver Queen back to it, to Starling. _But he’s just a man under that hood_. He needed help.

“So, you thought you’d just take a stroll down-”

His crabby growl was cut off by a car explosion overhead.

 _Eep!_ Ducking, “oh my god!” An orange glare made Felicity squint behind her glasses, feeling Detective Lance’s hands on her back, keeping her covered by his bent form. _I was not made for this!_

“God, this is a nightmare.” His rasp above her head was barely audible and he wasn’t wrong, but she hadn’t allowed herself time to stop and consider the world around her. She’d freeze if she did. “Come on.” He straightened, bringing her stumbling up with him - he had a firm grip on her biceps - and her hands accidentally slid past his belt-

“Sorry!” _Hands_ off! _Hands off that particular area of his anatomy!_

Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice - or care - how she’d nearly touched his- _never mind. He’s a grown man_ and _a cop; he’s probably had more than a few hands accidentally near his penis._ She internally winced, _don’t think penis in front of the good detective_ , though it would be a very different thing if it were Oliver- _and I’m going to hell via earthquake machine_.

It had been that kind of day after all.

The Detective’s eye near-twitched as she hopped back; her hands coming up, as if to ward off a fire.

They really could have made a great ‘straight man, air head’ duo if she didn’t have a genius IQ and he, well; _if he actually had a sense of humour,_ she thought mutinously as she braced for the return of the glower.

Luckily for her, in the past 5 months she’d been on the receiving end of the kind of glower that put all other glowers to shame so, moot point. _Try again, my man_. The one area she could boast having some courage.

“The city’s going to hell.” It was the brusque tone of someone very unhappy to see her after a day of endless surprises - none of them good - but she was pretty sure she hadn’t felt this relieved when Oliver saved her at the casino because that had been a sure thing and Quentin- _he can’t do this by himself_. Or at all. It was ludicrous to expect him to be able to, even with her voice in his ear. He wasn’t Oliver. “You shouldn’t be out here!” He barked - really; he barked like a grumpy canine, _so it isn’t just an Oliver thing, though Oliver does it better_ ; as in, it touched her in places it shouldn’t- _Focus_. “Tell me you got lost.”

The million-dollar question. “That,” she began; straightening her glasses and letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, “is a good question. With, I assure you, a good answer.” _That you will not like,_ _and_ _I sound like Mulan._ Men like Quentin did not hold well with allowing women younger than his daughter, to go strolling into the night towards danger; though with Laurel Lance as a daughter, he really should be used to it by now. _It pretty much makes him Shang in this equation. Or Far Zu._

So, what did that make Oliver?

He’d said something to her about an hour ago:

 _“Felicity…” trailing off, Oliver gaged her for a moment. Standing there in his T-Shirt and jeans, he still looked oddly ready for a war and his eyes were resolute. They were telling her,_ no _. “You are not going out there.” Pronouncing each word slowly, clearly and directly, Oliver looked her in the eye. “You’re staying here, where I know you’re safe.”_

_“A minute ago, you wanted me out of here altogether, until I reminded you.” She spoke quietly, unsure of herself, because she didn’t understand why he was being so steadfast. “No one in the city is safe, Oliver.”_

_“As safe as you can_ be _then.” He pointed towards her monitors, a few steps away from where she stood holding herself. “This area is ground zero, but you were right: we need you. So, you_ stay _here.” He pointed to the Foundry floor. “It’s safer down here than out there; even if the machine goes off. Stay on the coms. Guide Quentin through the tunnels towards the device._ He _can shut it down,” his gaze was as direct as his words, “there’s no need to put you in more danger.”_

 _There was a big caveat in that just waiting to be tapped. “But_ I’ll _be able to do it quicker.” She threw logic at him just as he started to turn away, to move towards his suit and secondary bow. “I’m not arguing with you.” And she really wasn’t; she was just using her head with as soft a voice as she could manage without it revealing any of the trepidation she was feeling and, after an exhale that tantalisingly lifted the muscles in his back, he turned to see her again. “You’re right,” she glanced towards the screens, “it is_ very _scary out there.” And she sounded like she really was aware of that, in ways others weren’t and Felicity would not add to Oliver’s burden in any way. However, she had a skill set that most didn’t, and in a situation like this, he shouldn’t be discriminating_ her _from anyone else. He should be_ using _her; even if it was dangerous. Is one life worth more than the other? “Detective Lance has no idea how to translate what he’s seeing: I’ll have to take the time to do that for him and_ then _guide him through. If_ I _go, it’s a sure thing-”_

_“I don’t care.” The words were final, and they stopped her. “Even if it means our chances rise; I will not risk your life on a maybe.” The marks from his ordeal with Mr Merlyn were visible even in the dim lighting in the Foundry and yet he was thinking about everyone but himself. “End of discussion.”_

_Eyes flickering away, she swallowed. Frustration at her inability to physically change her situation warred with the sense in his truth and the wonder of his friendship. His care. His comforting, alarming and infuriating overprotectiveness. It wasn’t the first time she’d been witness to it; it was just the first time she’d been the sole target._

_The idea of staying in the Foundry was reassuring; she didn’t want to die tonight but if she must, why not in her home? But she didn’t want anyone else to die either; not Oliver, John- not Detective Lance or the innocent civilians in the city. No one._

_Yet, he’d said_ no _._

_Biting down on her lip, her arms released her stomach; her fingers stretching at her sides, itching to go make a difference, even though the thought of going out there, into a literal hostile zone, made her feel physically ill-_

_“Felicity.”_

_Sucking in a breath, she glanced to him. He hadn’t moved. The look in his eyes was most definitely a_ don’t even think about it _, because he could read her almost as well as she could read him. And she didn’t need to ask about that to understand it: he needed just one person safe, otherwise how could_ he _go out there?_

_So, she exhaled and gave it to him: more relieved than she could admit, more worried than ever before. “Okay.”_

_Nodding - already mentally past all this - he strode over to where Diggle was packing his bag of military goodies…_

She’d done as told. She’d remained underground, as safe as she could be… until she’d started prepping Quentin on what he’d have to do whilst he was on his way to the sewers and _oh god he’d sounded like an old, abused typewriter._

_“Sync the what to- what?!”_

Safe to say, she’d died a little on the inside. Quite possibly, she retched a bit too. It was a recipe for disaster and considering the state of the city, that was saying a lot.

So, with that thought - feeling the most incredible shot of pure panic - she’d left the Foundry with her tablet, earpiece and phone; praying that Oliver would understand, that he’d forgive her because she’d had a crappy choice.

A choice he’d already decided for her and wouldn’t understand why she’d choose otherwise, no matter the consequences.

 _And here we are_. “I think,” she slid past the detective a little; indicating into the everlasting darkness, _to the fun, fun, fun,_ ahead, “we should walk and talk.” _Did that sound competent, capable and confident?_ It didn’t to her. _More like my bunny slippers just ran for cover._ “It’s easy to lose your way down there.” The long-abandoned subway not serviced in a frightfully long time. Not checked by the police or pest control- _rats live down there._ Not that she had to worry about directions: she’d memorised the maps and, as with driving, Felicity was a proficient navigator.

But the detective looked like he’d been smacked around by the wet fish of reality. “You think I’m going to _let_ you go down there?” One of his hands was still on her arm; gently though, because old habits never die. Despite his crotchety exterior, Quentin Lance - at heart - was a gentleman and a troubled father with one living daughter, one sadly deceased younger daughter, an ex-wife he still cared for and a penchant for chivalry. “Wait, why is _he_ letting you go down there?”

_He._

Oliver. To Detective Lance, The Hood.

Her mouth opened... closed. “Um.” How to say this without-

Wait, _let_?

“Don’t tell me he sent you.” His dark eyes turned flinty; flickering over her head - very obviously internally judging a certain green leather wearing hero - to mutter. “Just when I’m beginning to like the guy.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.” She forced out - fast - earning a look that she presumed was the Detective’s version of _say that again?_ “I… came here of my own volition.” She cleared her throat because, yep; it sounded dumb now that she’d said it aloud and by the twist in Lance’s expression, he was in full agreement. **But**. “Besides; he isn’t the boss of me.” _Lame_. “It’s my life, my choice.” _Better_. She said it so decidedly - even as her voice trembled - that he appeared a little taken aback. “And it isn’t like you know how to shut it down-”

“No.” He shook his head, once. “You need to go back, _now_. You can direct me over a phone, you shouldn’t be-”

“I am well aware,” speaking in her loud voice - she’d shouted at bigger men than he, last name Diggle, first name John - she looked him in the eye and yes; it did _not_ feel right; dressing down an officer of the law more than twice her age, “of what I should and shouldn’t do. And what I _can_ do, which is shut down a machine threatening the lives of thousands.” Her words were solid. Voice, _almost_ steady.

“What if…” the detective licked his lips. “Why can’t _I_ just do it?” _Oh_ , she felt that behind her ribs. His fear. “How much time could you possibly save?” He finished, helplessly desperate to make her go away.

As lovely as it was, _he_ was taking up the time asking futile questions: they were on a clock. “And if you come across a failsafe?” She threw at him, gratified when he didn’t try to rejoinder with something epically redundant. “Or if it doesn’t look a _thing_ like it’s supposed too? What if it’s coded in a different _language_?”

For which she had algorithms specifically designed to _de_ code.

The bridge of his nose crinkled, eyes squinting. “Why would it be coded-”

 _Oh my god._ “I don’t know! But wouldn’t you rather have someone doing this who, you know, _knows_ what they’re _doing_?!” The words rang out in the din and the detective jerked back; blinking at her, once. Twice.

_Oops._

Louder, loud voice.

It was just… everyone _else_ was involved in this. Physically, at the very least. Even people who didn’t need to be; they were _in_ it.

_Why not me?_

Oliver had told her: he’d warned Laurel out of the Glades, but the way he’d said it sounded more like a suggestion than a command. A plea. He’d _asked_ the woman, letting it fall to her to decide whether she’d listen and hopefully she’d have the sense to heed his words; especially after the news break.

His mother had been taken away to the women’s correctional facility, just outside of the city. Outside of the seismic wave zone.

Thea, he’d assumed, was at the Mansion… _please, for the love of Netflix and ice cream Sundays, tell me she really is at the mansion._ But she had a boyfriend who, Felicity knew Thea loved and if she was anything like Felicity- _she’ll be out here in the thick of it, looking for him._

Not good.

But the point was that, the women in his life had been given the choice.

Yet, Felicity had made one _little_ suggestion about being the man to call, so to speak, to dismantle the device and Oliver had shut her down. Felicity Smoak must stay well away from the ugliness of the Undertaking.

 _Maybe it’s because I’m me._ And not a woman in his life. Just his IT girl. But that made less sense. It was soothing to know that he wanted her safe; even as everyone else wasn’t, which was why it was also so _supremely_ idiotic. If she were Laurel or his sister, she’d understand.

Why clamp the chains on _her_?

Being the one to do the dismantling would save them precious minutes and Oliver knew that. He’d still refused. _I’m… I’m competent enough_. Didn’t he think she was too? Or did his faith in her only exist under old factories?

It made what she was feeling all the more complicated, which sort of defined Oliver Queen. _Complicated_.

Thinking back on it, the likelihood of being able to stand by and watch as the terror in the city rose on her various screens, was doubtful anyway. Not that the Foundry would necessarily even _be_ a haven, if the worst happened. _Believing_ it would be helped Oliver focus, which was why she’d kept her end of the coms on silent after she’d left.

He’d be angry at her later, if there was a later. She could take it. And neither he nor John would need her during their possible fight with the Dark Archer.

Now, back to the fact that she’d used her loud voice with Quentin Lance.

“I…” The detective cleared his throat. “You make a good point.”

“It happens.” And she managed a smile as she straightened her glasses like she wasn’t just as in over her head as he was. “Besides, I’m tougher than I look.”

She looked like a dork who’d blow over with a breeze, so the reassurance fell flat.

The way his brow tapered down - the deadpan tilt to his features - told her he thought the same. “I don’t agree with this,” he came out with, sharply; his hands now on his hips. “And I don’t like it.” He sighed, all sorts of irritated. “But I suppose I don’t have any choice, do I?”

“Not tonight.” Securing her tablet to her chest and looking down in the darkness ahead - there were spiders and _things_ down there - she took a breath for nerves. “You don’t need to do this either, you know.”

“Tough.” He rumbled out, stepping into the unknown and clicking on the flashlight he pulled out of thin air. “Because I made a choice too. And it’s kind of all your fault, so…”

Remembering her words to him at the precinct-

_“…Kind of makes him a hero.”_

-And then his and Oliver’s muted conversation, where they’d used her to bridge the gap between them before the detective had offered himself to the cause for the night because, to him, he’d failed in protecting the people he’d sworn to serve.

Struggling through too many thoughts before managing a nod. “Right.”

_THANK GOD._

She didn’t want to be alone down there.

Flashlight out, Lance continued to take point. “But, do you want to tell me why you decided it would be a good idea to come down here anyway, _after_ The Hood told me you’d be kept out of harm’s way?”

Basically, Detective Lance had agreed to this possible suicide mission that Oliver had asked of him, for _her_.

Warm, _warm_ fuzzy feelings. Overwhelming feelings. Terrifying feelings. _Lock them down._ “Well, er,” she floundered, moving forwards with him, “I think there might be a second device.”

“What?!” She turned mid-walk to see that he’d halted; his face paling at speed. “N-no, no you can’t be serious.”

Mouth dry, she sent him another, far weaker smile. “Like I said; necessary, right?”

He gaped at her. “Oh, hell…”

 

* * *

 

 

A little while later, hell was definitely the appellation to use.

 _Crap-on-a-cracker_.

She’d been right about the second device. _I hate it when I’m right: why am I always right? No one likes a smarty pants._ It didn’t change the fact that, they were deeply screwed.

The device could be triggered via remote transmitter; something she made sure to inform Oliver and Dig about as she stood before the thing. The very large - _so much bigger than me_ \- shiny - _blue, electronically pretty and misleading_ \- scary thing that promised an artificial horror to be unleashed beneath the city and, also, right in her face.

 _“It’s set to activate on a timer, but Merlyn probably has a mobile transmitter on his person: don’t let him use it.”_ She’d said to them where she stood very still with her tablet attached to the machine, only after having _ordered_ Quentin not to try to tell Oliver where she was just then.

_Bad Felicity._

After accessing the interface on the vertical mechanism, she discovered that if deactivated, a signal - like a neural shock - would be sent, triggering a secondary device into activating itself.

And there wouldn’t be a timer to give them precious minutes.

“I… I have to go.” She managed to mumble at the end of a brief explanation to the detective about what would happen next, as she stared; horrified at the truth.

“You can’t.” Hand on her shoulder, he managed to pull her round to face him and everything about him screamed at her to not do what she was going to do. “There’s no way of knowing if you’re right.”

She looked at him - miserably - as if to say, _of course I am. That’s why Oliver chose me; that’s why I’m here._ “If we shut this down, the second will activate, and it’ll be for nothing. People _will_ die.” Brow joined in a deep furrow, he glared at her; but she knew he was just… well, terrified. About people dying. About allowing a woman younger than his daughter do exactly what he feared she was about to do, because he couldn’t be in two places at once and was by no means a technical wizard himself.

About his daughter - who he’d spoken of on their way towards the device - and knowing her better than she knew herself. He knew Laurel was at CNRI, because her best friend Johanna, had called him.

Laurel… after being asked by Oliver _not_ to go into the Glades this night, especially after the news report, she’d gone anyway.

_“Laurel, she… I don’t know, she’s on some sort of mission to make the city a better place; somewhere good people can live. She does what she thinks is right, but sometimes,” Quentin sighed as they moved forwards, “I just wish she’d listen.”_

And the only hope left in Starling, was a vigilante archer who’d killed a lot of people, a war veteran seeking some sort of atonement, acting as his bodyguard and an IT nerd with zero combat experience.

And yet.

She shook her head. “There isn’t.”

No choice at all.

Gritting his teeth - brow sweating - his eyes flickered around before they returned without another option. “Dammit!” Pretty much looking like he wanted to throw the flashlight, his higher brain regained control and he took a shuddering breath. “You stay in contact with me. Guide me through,” he waved at the machine, “this. We’ll do it together.”

Together. “You won’t need me to guide you.” Her hands clenched over her tablet, _oh my god we’re doing this_. “You just need to wait till the very last second on the timer,” to give _her_ as much time as he could. “I’ve set it so that all you’ll have to do is touch the pad.” And the second device would _wakey-wakey_ , _I’m going to be sick_. “Then you need to get out of here.”

So swiftly she thought his neck would crack, he shook his head. “I’m not leaving you down here.”

“You’ll _have_ to.” She said urgently. “I’ll be able to deactivate the second device with this,” her tablet that her hands were trembling over or any mobile terminal really, “I piggybacked the sequential algorithm that wirelessly connects one device to the other, essentially allowing me to-”

“Okay, okay, alright!” Hand held up, Quentin’s damp forehead spoke of so many things just then. Sad things. “You told me enough on the way here that I’ll probably get a headache if you start again.”

A wet laugh broke free from her. “You’ll be fine.”

He stared at her like he couldn’t believe her. Like he was scared _for_ her; flat out terrified for the 23-year-old in front of him, who was smiling like she was missing a loose screw.

“You never know.” _Do. Not. Cry_. “I might get there before it goes off.”

He looked and sounded like he’d run a marathon: dark eyes begging her for a different option. “And if you don’t?”

“Then I… I’ll do it anyway.” As artificial seismic waves sweep over her. Under her. Whatever. Piece of cake.

_I want Oliver to be here._

“I could do still it.” He repeated uselessly; watching her disconnect her tablet and step away.

“Nope. I’ll have to break through the protocols and do it fast.” Piece. Of. Cake. And that wasn’t a lie: the machine was built to be impossible for laymen to decipher since Malcolm Merlyn didn’t know diddly squat about computers. But for anyone else, it would take too long. “The quicker I stop it, the less damage there’ll be.”

“Go. Before my conscience overcomes my better sense.” His gaze was a gentle nudge, pushing her towards the silent emptiness of another abandoned subway tunnel.

But just as she moved from stumbling steps to jog, he called out. “Who the hell are you, Miss Smoak?!”

She didn’t understand the question, but she was already running. “Call Laurel!” She shouted over her shoulder.

In case the worst happened.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Felicity… Felicity, there’s a second device.”_

Sprinting as she was - _thank god I put my boots on_ ; the military editions Oliver had bought for her in case of emergencies - Oliver’s voice in her ear almost made her trip and fall. He sounded like all his worst fears had come to pass and maybe they had.

But this one wouldn’t. _Not if I have anything to say about it._ And she’d never tire of hearing her name spoken with his voice. But how long did she have left to enjoy it?

 _Please don’t let this be the last time_. Tapping the com in her ear, “yeah, I know that,” Felicity managed to glimpse the timer on her tablet and-

2 minutes, 47 seconds left to seismic flux.

_Oh, holy crap._

It had been surreal, being so very alone in the scary darkness and yet, having Quentin Lance’s voice hovering around her through the radio as he muttered and breathed, taking no chances with the machine… It had helped her _not_ to totally freak out. Even as she subconsciously searched for Freddy or Jason in the black that remained untouched by her pathetic hand-held light, which probably wasn’t the best thing for her.

But with this? _Freaking. The. Frack. Out!_

_“Are you running?”_

She bit her lip - voice hoarse and pushed to a certain kind of limit, Oliver did _not_ sound good - Felicity tried to keep her heavy breathing to a minimal, but the last time she took running seriously was forever in a dream in some place far, far away. _Why didn’t I take Dig up on his offer again?_ _Oh right, I remember; because the man wakes up at stupid o’clock, before any decent coffee shop is open and-_

_“Felicity!”_

She yelped; it echoed against her footsteps. “I might be!”

There was a short pause that felt never ending given the countdown until-

_“You’re not in the Foundry. You’re in the tunnel.”_

“Please don’t be mad.” She managed to plead and gasp; _I really want you guys here_ , but she also wanted them to live and the dismal certainty in his tone was telling her that he was tense and injured and too far away to be of any help. This was the proverbial icing on the now very dry, untouched birthday cake that she’d bought for him earlier. “I realised there was a second device after you left.” The kind of helpless, hopeless laugh that broke out of her was far too telling. “I’m actually irritated it took me so long: it’s tactics 101; but if I’d told you guys, it would have stopped you,” _because you’re both the most amazing, beautiful friends to have,_ “and from what I heard just now, you finally managed to put the Dark Archer down for good, right?”

_Get some, boys._

Silver linings. Confetti. Birthday candles on a tiny green cake, with _Oliver_ written in pink icing just sitting on her kitchen table.

Hope.

And maybe Diggle had lost his com in the fight because instead of hearing his voice, she heard Oliver speak to the only other person who could be near to him, “ _she’s down there, in the tunnel.”_ His shallow breaths rasped over the com. “ _Felicity, get out of there.”_

 _Obstinate man._ “It’s too late for that!”

 _“Then what’s the plan?”_ Emotional, stressed, injured; he was still all business. “ _Talk to me._ ”

Panting, she spoke; cursing the stitch she’d felt growing at her side. Nearly there. “The devices… were placed at junctures… at opposite ends of a subway line that runs straight through- _under_ … the Glades, but… near enough to each other,” running made her voice choppy, “so as to reach… maximum affect,” _and_ _wasn’t that a nice thought?_ Also, having to cross over rail lines, through one very creepy, defunct train and a few fallen walls of stone meant that, inevitably - _because it’s me_ \- she’d fallen twice; scrapping her knees rather messily, which was a nice way of saying she’d ripped her pants and blood had trickled down them.

_Badass, I am not._

“Give me a minute.” She pushed out, slowing to a fast walk. “I need to make sure Detective Lance is ready-”

_“For what?”_

“We have to turn the first device off before the end of the countdown, which will inevitably activate the failsafe: the second device.”

_“And then?”_

“I should be close enough by then to attempt a wireless-”

_“Alright: I’m coming to you.”_

Her heart missed a step. “W-what?”

There was a breathless second where it sounded like Oliver was lifting something heavy. _“Just wait for me-”_

“Oliver, there isn’t time!” _For that or for this conversation_ , she thought anxiously as she muted his side of the com _. I need a moment to-_

A series of whines and electronic beeps aired nosily over the walkie-talkie the detective had given her. _“It’s not supposed to be doing that, is it?”_ The detective slowly stated.

“No. I mean, yes! Standby!” Heart in her throat, her fingers flew over her tablet - watching as the timer depleted down to seconds instead of minutes - horrified as she realised she was still out of range. “God, we have a _minute_.”

_“I’m so sorry about this.”_

“It’s fine.” She was sweating, heart pounding, trembling, pleading with the universe to help her and… no, she wasn’t crying. Water was just building up in her eyes. That’s all. “Did… did you get through to Laurel?”

To his precious baby girl. _Someone should be able to say goodbye to their families_ : she, Diggle and Oliver hadn’t had the time.

_Mum…_

Her face scrunched up, lips pressing shut, at the wave of love and fear and that irrational need even adults still had for mummy. A need she couldn’t satisfy just then. Maybe not ever.

 _“Yeah.”_ She heard him sigh. _“I was right: she’s at CNRI.”_

She twisted into a narrow U-turn, taking a much needed, steadying breath. Or five. _Calm_. “And she’s leaving, right?”

_“…I don’t know.”_

There was no time to worry. “Remember what I said: the moment you press that button, you get out of the area.” She insisted, sounding far braver than she felt and she _felt_ utterly alone. Petrified. Resolute, because there were some things that had to be fought for. “Almost there.”

_“But, what about you?”_

_Stop asking me that!_ She might answer and then he’d never leave. “We’re running out of time: give me a second!”

Switching off the radio, she tapped her com piece and opened her mouth to say-

 _“Felicity?!”_ LOUD _. “Felicity, come in-”_

“I’m here!” She almost was, according to her tablet, close enough to the device. “Listen; Laurel’s at CNRI!”

_“What?”_

Distraction was a tool to be used, though not by her. Hot shame pooled at the bottom her spine and her stomach. But Felicity knew him. He’d come for her; forsaking others, forsaking _Laurel_ , because he couldn’t bear letting a person die. And he wouldn’t blame Felicity if the worst happened. He’d reap the blame himself and that was something she couldn’t allow to happen.

“She’s in the Glades,” with about half of its inhabitants, “go get her.” Her heart hurt. “Leave this to us.”

_Goodbye Oliver._

_“But-”_

“You’ve run out of time.”

_You did so well these last few months. You were brave and charismatic, and you’re becoming everything this city needs._

_“If she didn’t listen to me, then that was her choice.”_ Oliver forced out through what sounded like clenched teeth. _“I won’t leave you down there.”_

 _Stop being my hero._ “You have to!” As if someone was sitting on her chest, her next breath hurt. “I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry I can’t tell you how happy I felt when you chose to trust me, working with you to do what others couldn’t._

_“Don’t turn it off.”_ And it was as if he could see her as he huffed whatever he was carrying, something else that made her nauseous because, _what if it’s Dig?_ _“Don’t turn off your com.”_

_Thank you, Oliver._

“I’m sorry.” She repeated before doing exactly that. Lifting the walkie-talkie back to her mouth, she called into the dark. “Detective, it’s time.” How she managed to sound so fracking steady when she was alternating between walking and jogging, when a tear had already rolled down her cheek, she didn’t know. “Disconnect from the service port.” She sucked in a breath; the fingers of one hand flying over her tablet as the signal she’d been waiting for finally made itself known, “Deactivate the machine.”

_“God…”_

“I know.” She mumbled, sniffing.

_“I don’t think I can do this.”_

“It’s okay.”

_“He’s going to kill me.”_

It was a whisper she couldn’t verbally respond to.

Again, if the worst happened; Oliver would simply blame himself. But if there’d been any other way than this, she’d have taken it. _I’d promised myself I’d never make him suffer needlessly._ It was a double-edged sword. If Oliver had been with her now, he wouldn’t be able to go to Laurel. Yet not being with her now, might hurt him later.

 _“He’d be right to.”_ A harsh breath sounded down the line, making her wince. _“I’m sorry honey.”_

Honey.

“It’s ok.” She did not sound like herself. “The machine works on currents, creating vibrations underground. It’ll set off a chain reaction overhead, but it shouldn’t be immediate.”

_“Your point?”_

“I might actually get through this, that is…” she added, sounding small and pathetic, because there was every chance she’d just lied through her teeth, “if this works.”

_“I don’t like this-”_

“8 seconds!” She shouted; rushing ahead that last proverbial mile, “7, do it!”

_“Son of a bitch.”_

Then he shut it down.

Speeding forwards, her tablet pinged - telling her she was within range - just as she jumped through a literal hole in a wall at the exact moment the second device started to boot up and a word in beeping red appeared on her screen.

**AUTHORISE DEACTIVATION**

_Yes_. She would do exactly that, please and thank you-

A vibration so strong it was visible in the air, took her breath away, knocking her on her ass.

 _Holy frack._ For a moment, she couldn’t breathe; couldn’t make her lungs expand as she tried to orientate herself, and she realised it was partially due to fear. _Dispersal wave_. It was a bleary thought as intelligence pushed past the shock, to the panic in her chest.

 _Press the buttons already, all the buttons_ \- Somehow, she managed to apply the correct code as the earth shook and- _actually it’s not bad_ , she thought as her lungs finally let her choke down air, _I can take this._ The feeling of the earth beneath her feet slowly giving way and the earth above her head crumbling, _I-_

Then another, harder wave sent her body backwards; her head crashing to the floor.

_No, no, no-_

Eyes Wide open, the vibration intensified: the kind that made a person grit their teeth, that added to gravity, wrenching her arm down in front of her to where she’d dropped her tablet. _Reach!_ She did; grasping onto it and managing to keep hold as energy shook her to the core. She could do this. _I can be_ asleep _and do this._ She didn’t need to be standing. She didn’t _have_ to think about the bits of earth falling on her - the foundations to the tunnel were too old to withstand this - or the white noise now coming from her ear piece; didn’t have to think about the fact that this just _wouldn’t_ work-

_It will work._

There were so many people who needed it to work and she thought of _them_.

So, she typed; anticipation soaring – _I can do this!_

The next upsurge had something bash, hard, against her side; made pieces of earth fall on her and she prayed a Hebrew prayer she thought she’d long forgotten.

**DEACTIVATE.**

_Gotcha!_

The breath was knocked out of her one last time; forehead hitting the dirt as the world stilled.

As darkness reigned.

 

* * *

 

 

Years later, she’d look back at this moment and would still be unable to pull together the right words to describe the sheer relief that came with the end to the vibrations.

And the terror that utterly _destroyed_ it with the realisation that she was buried alive.

 _It’s an exaggeration, it’s got to be an exaggeration_. But it was what it felt like. Perception - as most well know - is the deciding factor when it comes to trauma.

Lashing fluttering - blinking away dirt and stone - she felt the darkness like an extra weight. A cloak. There was dust up her nostrils, on her tongue. It was too quiet. Too still. She was curled up in a ball under… under whatever was covering her.

That was enough to burn every cogent thought out of her head, making a very simple situation, a real hell on earth. So, for one petrifying moment, Felicity Smoak’s incredible brain twist-turned upside down, making her feel like a caught rabbit in a wired net with the business end of a shotgun shoved in her face.

Everything seized. _Nope, no._ Immediate awareness was a rare accompaniment to shock, but she’d always had the bad luck of being unable to hide behind slow processing. Her observational mindfulness had always been light-years ahead of her kinaesthetic sense, so before she could rationalise it, panic played havoc with her insides making her oesophagus shrink and her throat constrict.

“Oh no,” she sobbed pathetically through frozen lips. “H-help.” _Please_. She couldn’t shout: she didn’t have enough air, but it was her first instinct to call for help into the dark, where no one could hear her. “ _Help_.”

_I don’t want to die down here._

With that genuinely painful thought, it hit her suddenly that she was, in fact, alive. _Oh_. Her body unlocked. _Adrenaline._ Senses working overtime, her heart was pounding too fast to hear and _\- look at that!_ She _could_ move: she _could_ shift her arm, her feet, her neck- _good, that’s good_. Very. A desperate sort of hope invaded her - filling up her lungs with air, making her stomach strain with her frantic need to escape - and she almost coughed out a laugh - her voice sounding like she’d swallowed broken pieces of metal - as she wriggled free from under surprisingly light, brittle clay-like soil and pieces of rock.

 _Ugh_. Lifting herself onto her backside - the palms of her hands pushing down against the cold ground - she looked into the aftermath; spluttering and wheezing into the dust motes and holding back a sneeze or two. _If I start, I’ll never stop._ She couldn’t really see the light debris covering her, _oh thank god_. Light. Light debris. The ceiling wouldn’t be giving away in the next five seconds: it was sturdier than it looked.

The strength of her relief made her extremities numb.

But she noticed it didn’t grow brighter, the darkness.

Swallowing, Felicity took three unhurried - shaky - breaths. Like, _taste that dust and dirt: it’s life!_ _Next time I get it into my head to go down into a dark tunnel and be courageous…_ she’d probably do it all over again with a face mask. Half buried alive and all.

Half. Buried. Alive…

Because even though she wasn’t covered in heavy pieces if earth, she was _still_ under the surface of the city, in an unused - unstable - tunnel, where no one would see her if they came looking.

“Not. Happening.” She wouldn’t hyperventilate, not down here. “I put myself here: I can get myself out.”

Easier said than done.

Still, her hands smacked against the floor - gullet tying like a tube knot - forcing herself upwards. Her balance was shot to hell in the dark and-

_I’m dizzy._

Body tilting, tummy turning abruptly, she felt herself bend over before retching hard enough to burn the back of her throat. “Oh…” gagging, she coughed in precious - dirty - air as her dirty hands reached out, very much blind in the darkness.

If there was someone _inexplicably_ down there with her, she made an easy target.

Her ears were ringing. She still felt woozy. She was alone.

She was _alive_.

And the machine was not.

It had worked.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up out from her throat and she was kind of glad no one was around to hear it: she sounded like a horror-show. As if _she_ was the creepy thing hidden in the dark places.

Taking those first steps forwards felt an awful lot like Bambi and _his_ first steps: unsteady and ridiculous and brave and helpless and relieved; very much remembering the brief earthquake that must have ripped the earth apart somewhere.

 _Detective Lance._ Had he made it out? She reached for her walkie-talkie-

It was somewhere behind her, in the rubble.

She tapped her ear piece, coughing again at air-borne dirt she inhaled.

It was dead.

 _Did they make it? Did Oliver get to Laurel in time?_ She truly hoped he had; that he could look back at this night and think, _victory_. She couldn’t wait to see them both; him and John…

Right now, for her, the whole world felt still. Until she saw them with her own eyes, reality could by anything.

It was in thinking about them that her foot brushed past a broken wall, her eyes adjusting to the change in light as she peered down - _up?_ \- what seemed like an old walkway… light. There was light. Dim but, it was leading _out_.

Outside.

Heart - _hope_ \- kicking up, her heartbeat rose until she was running across a floor she couldn’t see. _Flying_.

Breaching the end of the tunnel felt close to being reborn and sucked in that first breath of sweet, sweet freedom. “Oh, thank you _god_.” _I’ll never take you name in vain again_. And then she was smiling, crying and laughing. “We did it, we…”

But on straightening, her happy moment faltered.

The Glades were a mess.

It wasn’t _too_ bad… it wasn’t good.

Of course, she’d come out somewhere close to nowhere - _the east harbour?_ \- and, now that she was outside - the weather oddly chilled for May - Felicity stared at the wreckage where she stood on the outside of the Glades, that less than a minute that an artificially induced tectonic flux could create.

She’d made it in time, but she also hadn’t really, had she?

 _Had anyone… died?_ There was no way to tell.

A lump moved up her throat, almost making her gag. It tasted like failure. _I- I tried_.

She’d never experienced anything like this before, had never been _involved_ like this before; in anything. Yet, it didn’t frighten her. Well, it _did_ : it terrified her the way most people would be terrified. But it didn’t make her want to run. Or hide. It made her want to wade into the mess and get her hands dirty.

Maybe that should have been odd to her but at this moment, there were other things screaming for attention.

 _Is anyone injured?_ Civilians caught in it as they tried to evacuate their homes. Did they know they were safe now?

Taking it in - and really, it wasn’t too bad: one house here, a road there; a building with its windows shattered, _oh god_ \- her _trying_ may not have been enough.

 _I need to get to Oliver_. He’d know what to do next. _Find Quentin, figure out a plan to deal with… this_. Somehow. We will. That’s why they existed. “That’s why we became a team,” she muttered to herself like one of those crazy bag ladies you avoid on the street, “a Motley Crew, a Band of Brothers,” she lifted her fist and whisper-yelled, “a tour de force!”

Then she stumbled on a rock in the road; the only broken pieces of tar anywhere near her and she managed to trip on the thing, _because it’s me._ Had she even taken a step? _Can you trip standing still? How hard did I hit my head?_

She needed a phone.

“Where am I again?” Blearily squinting into the night, she didn’t recognise a thing.

And she could tell she was a little out of it: she was oddly numb to her surroundings as she started walking in whichever direction her gut told her to travel down.

Standing still wouldn’t get her anywhere, except cold. And hungry- _gah, I need food_. All the food. Big Belly Burger with her boys, _that feels nice. Sounds nice. Is nice. Something._

Adrenaline had burned through the sandwich she’d had… _yesterday lunch?_ The chance of a police unit or ambulance, a fire brigade or wandering vigilante popping up out of the shadows, was low.

She had no concept of time, no idea how long she’d been walking when a shriek tore through the air.

It hit her the way the ocean might if she were to fall into it after a thirty-foot drop: ice water hitting like spikes, from the coccyx to the ball of the spine. From hunched over and hugging herself to ramrod in a second, she realised how silent it was. How there was no one else truly around. How her heart was pounding.

How she’d heard similar screams like that before, over the coms… and how they only ever meant one thing.

So, her body was waiting for part two, but didn’t yet know what that was. She only knew that her own fear was nowhere near the level of fear-

_“Help me! Hel-!”_

-laced in that scream.

The sickening way it just cut off made Felicity stop breathing.

Made her heart miss a step when another wordless, wet shout told her that the woman who was screaming, had been caught.

But she was close, was just around the corner… where Felicity found herself in with unerring accuracy, because her feet had made the decision for her blank mind.

What she saw made her want to cry.

Made her want to sob like a baby and run far away. Made her regret never taking John Diggle up on his offer to teach her how to shoot a gun, how to wield a knife.

Made her as fucking angry - the kind of anger she’d never felt before - as it made her scared stiff.

There - down an old street with no houses - four men had cornered a woman into a stone wall and had her pinned there: one man held her by the throat as another had seized her struggling arms. From so far away, she couldn’t see everything that they were doing… but she could see how one of them had his face in the woman’s hair, another had his hand under a shirt that looked ripped at the seams and her shouts - her entreaties, _please_ and _stop_ and _wait_ and _no_ \- were telling enough.

They were a pack of jackals.

Taking advantage of the city’s earthquake event, they’d gone searching for trouble, for _fun_ , and were now looming over a fresh catch.

A loud voice sold by its own press, slid over her skin like a _worm_. “We like a screamer, don’t we boys.” Male laughter - the kind that spoke of every unpleasant, depraved intention a man had ever had for the fairer sex - carried through the night and the sick feeling inside her became the throbbing welt of every injustice unanswered in this city.

This woman was about to be raped for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and there was nothing Felicity Smoak could do: not against four monsters, not against evil like this. Not alone.

For all her smarts, for all her skills; right here, right now: she realised she was useless.

Which didn’t explain why, following this realisation, she did something unbelievably stupid.

Or very _right_.

Funny how those two things sometimes blur together: how doing the right thing could screw a person over.

And yet she did it without thinking, which maybe she should have. But what can you do when your body decides for you to be brave and foolish and a good person and take a stand against evil?

Regardless of whether she could do jack about or not.

“Hey…” voice quivering and little more than a mumble, she swallowed, “ _Hey!_ What are you doing?!” It was very clear what they were doing, but she just needed them to hear her; see her. Why the frack she needed that, she didn’t-

They saw her.

They looked.

They, one by one, stilled. Like a pack. A collective body.

And it was so casual, the way they did so, it made her shiver. The way they looked over at her, the way they didn’t jump back, didn’t react past being interested. That was what did it. That was what made her realise why her mind was empty of everything save the screaming instinct telling her to run, get out, save herself.

She’d made a colossal mistake.

It didn’t scare them, the idea of being caught. As if they didn’t fear what other people feared, because they didn’t _think_ like other people.

They. Didn’t. Care.

There was no Hood out tonight to save this woman, to save her. No police cruiser could navigate past the camped roads and streets that were actually only a few blocks from where she stood.

They were just cruising through moments, which made Felicity’s interference about as irritating as a gnat, but as enticing as-

“Is it dinner time?” One of them said, loud enough for her to hear, soft enough to ramp up her terror-meter and the smattering of quiet, low toned laughter following it was chillingly insidious.

“I’d call that desert.” Another purred as he stepped around the rest to take a good look at her and-

_Desert._

Rape and murder. These men lived and breathed it.

The man wiped a hand over his jaw: eyes dark like pits, even from so far away. There was nothing in them. “This one’s mine.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” low toned and offensive to the ears, the animal holding the woman’s arms over her head crooned, “I think there’s more than enough to share.”

When a low, rolling rumble left the man who’d stepped forward, fear shot through her like adrenaline; it was so sharp, it made her whimper.

Made her legs unfreeze.

The man - those black eyes narrowing, his hand leaving his jaw as he made a face; teeth barred like a rabid dog - turned. “I said, I’m first-”

They were arguing. About who’d who go first. About who’d rape which woman first, because there were four so there’d be second sand thirds and so on.

These were human beings. They were the same species as her, the same as the woman they were touching and trapping and invading…

The same woman who shot her a look that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

Large eyes - beautiful, almost violet and the kind of petrified that said they knew they weren’t going to survive this one way or another - puffy with tears and blackened by running mascara, told her to run. To go. To leave her.

Right.

Fucking.

Now.

Her fight battled her flight: her flight won supreme.

A piece of her felt like it stayed behind as she ran pell-mell in the opposite direction, leaving the woman behind. _I left her_. As she moved so fast, _I left her behind_ , before her brain could catch up that every five steps was a blink of her eyes and a flash of memory-

A sound followed her: something, piercing and unnatural to her ears…

Howling.

The men were howling after her, like she was their runaway dinner.

 _I’m sorry_. She sprinted and stumbled towards the closest building - the only building close enough to hide in - and when she heard them follow her, howling like the pack of animals they were, she started to scream. _I’m sorry, whoever you are._ She screamed for as long as she could, as loud as she could, as hard as she could. It was real. Just in case. Just in case someone was close. _I’m sorry I’m not strong enough_. Maybe, just maybe, someone would hear her.

She didn’t have her com. No mobile or laptop. No weapon.

 _Fight. Try._ At least two of them had abandoned their first catch, to chase their second. _Maybe you can escape. Please try._

The herd has split: the predators with them. There was a chance.

She’d heard that memory could skip in places when a person was living in an emotionally intense moment and that must have been what hers did: one blink of an eye she was outside, skidding past an abandoned car as she ran through a lot and the next, she was in the warehouse that the lot was situated in front of. An old shipping port, still in use and there was a set of stairs right there; maybe there was something here: a radio or a phone or-

“Well,” the long, indolent lick of the word wasn’t what she needed to hear right now, “look what _I_ found.”

She’d frozen before he’d finished the first word.

“You look dirty.” It wasn’t the sleazy voice she’d heard earlier, but the one that had growled for _first come, first serves_. “What were you doing rolling around in the dirt, dirty girl?”

She was too afraid to throw up. Stood there like a deer caught in a headlight, she watched this man stalk so very slowly into the heart of the building, looking to where she stood at the back in front of the stair case and absurdly wondered how he could look so _clean_ when he was so corrupt - so evil - on the inside.

“I like dirty. And I like the _blond_ too.” Head cocking to the side, he asked ever so simply. “Are you blond everywhere?”

Maybe she _could_ throw up.

Another step out of a shadowed area, confirmed that he was a good foot taller than her and at least twice as large. “Can’t talk?” Nodding to himself - as if this was business as usual and, horrifyingly, it probably was - he sniffed up like he’d _snorted_ a great deal tonight. “I get that. I _prefer_ that.” He preferred his victims to be silent. “Some don’t. Just means I have to find out for myself. I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”

And he smiled, like he’d just made a joke.

It wasn’t at all like in the moves. She _didn’t_ get a head start just because she was the good guy, wasn’t promised the upper hand for being _just_ or innocent or the plucky side-kick.

_The side kick usually dies anyway._

Fear really does take over; she can hear the blood pump in her ears, feel the solidity of the steps beneath her feet but they feel too steep to climb at first. Her heart’s beating too solidly to think straight because Oliver Queen wasn’t coming; he didn’t know. He was on the other side of the Glades, probably gunning it for Laurel Lance; the woman he loved, which was very much like the movies actually. The unrequited love for the hero by the comedic relief. A staple diet for comic books.

Cannon fodder.

She’d made a mistake. She’d acted like the protagonist - thinking she could change things just because she wanted them to change, thinking she could save a woman just by being there - when she should have run away.

When she should have left a woman to die.

Sometimes it’s all a person can do to survive: you choose between them and you and even then it isn’t a safe bet.

She’d given the woman a small chance of escape, if she tried. Better than some got.

_Not. Good. Enough._

It wasn’t. And she wasn’t strong enough. In the here and now, Felicity Smoak had been too transfixed by the predatory way this animal had stalked towards her to move in time. It wouldn’t have helped.

He was abnormally fast. Strong- he was _strong_.

Her absolute helplessness, her minimal strength as his upper body slammed into her legs, would stay with her past his.

Would help change her life.

But she’d already been running up the stairs, so his hands slipped on the back of her jacket too: as if he were clumsy – as if he were _high_. The _press_ made her fall forwards, tripping on a step and crying out only to stifle it: she didn’t want another joining them.

She was helpless enough as she was.

“Come _on_.” The growl made her skin crawl, made tears fall down her face, as blunt hands fumbled at her ass, as long fingers dug into the back of her belt and he was hauling her backwards roughly hallway up the steps, pulling her scrambling self into the wall at their side. She was moving too much for a handhold - kicking and lashing out at the air in that futile way victims sometimes do.

Her back colliding with the wall he’d aimed for winded her and he was on her before that next breath could be sucked in.

She knew how this went. She knew what would happen next.

Knowledge wouldn’t help here. Ignorance is indeed bliss.

Her brain processed at unfair speeds; she’d remember every single second of it later, in flashes of sensory stimuli, of images she’d rather have die.

Of the way he smelled infiltrating her nostrils, of his grin and pit-like eyes that left an imprint – along with his breath over her face as he fumbled into her clothes – as she fought against his much larger, more powerful self. As he laughed at her pathetic attempt to stop him. As he buried his face in her neck and took a long lick of her skin before his teeth fastened onto the side of her throat like a rabid dog with a bone.

And she was glad for the way she was responding: for the freeze frames, for the present gaps in memory, for the numbness; she didn’t need to feel right now. Too much ephemera. Nothing useful. Not as his hands roamed into the back of her pants, her jacket already on the floor, shirt askew, hair falling free from her bobble-

He loosened his hold on her arms, if only to reach her zip and it gave her a single moment of freedom to do the one thing her body remembered Dig teaching her: two fingers jammed down as hard as they could into the nook at the centre of the top of his chest: in the hub of the clavicle, _that_ juncture. She pressed them in and yanked _down_.

 _Dig was right_ , she thought absently as the man yelped; falling forwards into her knee – a reflex response that had blood bursting out of his nose. _It works even more on men._

Stumbling backwards onto his ass, she knew she only had seconds before he regained his composure and it wouldn’t be pretty for her.

Shooting up the last of the stairs, she ran. She ran as hard and as fast she’d ever run in her life, hearing him behind her-

“Fuck! Get back here!” He must have spat something; she heard him hock something foul out of his mouth and she hoped it was blood from his nose, before he shouted out. “ _Guys!_ ”

He was calling his friends.

With that pleasant thought – and it was cold here; so cold, and so isolated – her fear soaked brain took in the scuffling sound behind her and the far off shouts of one of his friends over her breathless panting… and she saw the old, dirtied, cracked window that covered the entirety of one wall. It led out into the bay, into the water.

 _Frack, I’m going to-_ She moved before she could think about it; sprinting forwards, covering her face with her arms just before she jumped and threw herself at it.

It broke pretty easily: she didn’t even feel it.

She didn’t feel anything.

She fell into black.

…

..

.

She was found hours later, laying half in the water, half out of it. Unconscious.

The four men, dead; half a mile from her.

 


	2. (Broken) Into Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2, HUZZAH!  
> I ask you to keep in mind that this is still 1.23. Ergo, this is S1 Oliver and co.  
> Also, this is not supposed to be a happy chapter, nor will i answer all of your questions.  
> ENJOY!

**The Night of the Undertaking**

“Felicity,” _what do I do now_ , “Felicity, there’s a second device.”

_Tell me what to do._

He’d said the words, he’d reactivated his com, on the distant hope that she’d be able to perform a miracle, because that’s what it felt like she did sometimes. That she’d be able to pull out the second device’s location from thin air and magically shut it down.

And - in a very real way - she’d done exactly that, hadn’t she?

“Don’t turn it off.” Teeth grit, he could almost see her in that tunnel as he forced Dig to stand; the knife wound had left one of John’s arms out of commission too. “Don’t turn off your com.”

_“I’m sorry.”_

She turned off her com.

It was unlike any other kind of fear he’d experienced before, hearing silence on her end; too sharp and too deep to be described, to be understood or thought about. He wouldn’t be ready to remember what it felt like standing there, staring out over the roof top; even days - weeks - later.

Months.

 _I’m sorry_. She was sorry. For what? For her courage, for her belief in him; that the three of them could perform a miracle that she alone had carried on her back. She’d said:

_“Please don’t be mad.”_

Eyes squeezing shut, it felt like someone had shoved their _fist_ down his oesophagus to squeeze his insides. It hurt and he deserved it.

She was terrified.

And he’d been rolling around with Malcolm Merlyn who, in the end, wasn’t the real danger: the machine was. _I could have let him go._ He could have gone down into the subway tunnels himself with John and they could have split up to take out the machines. Felicity could have guided them. He could have gone after Malcolm another day or waited for him to resurface… but he’d made it personal and now-

_I’m sorry._

Her voice would haunt his dreams, chasing away the dark.

It made him _move_ now.

Immediately dropping his hold on Diggle who collapsed to the floor like a puppet with clipped strings, he sprinted towards the edge of the rooftop; searching for an angle. A place to rudder down. A spot to drop to. A safe zone towards his motorcycle. He had time- there _was_ time left to pull her free, he _knew_ there was time.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Maybe Dig understood something he didn’t, because his tone as he called out to him, spoke of caution; it was evident even through the pain. “Oliver-”

But as Oliver angled over the side - still checking - the earth began to literally shake.

Wide eyed, his head lifted back to John. John bleeding and sprawled on the floor. John Diggle, a soldier who carried on through blood loss, a man who loved his brother’s widowed wife and son as if they were his own, a man who didn’t shy away from fear, who’d driven through forces in Afghanistan as children were armed as bombs, as the enemy aimed guns at his head.

So, the simple abject _knowing_ on his face was another stone in Oliver’s stomach.

The second device had activated.

 _Felicity_ … mind blanking - feeling the minute vibrations of the earth shaking even from so high up - he couldn’t fathom Felicity Smoak anywhere near the thing. Never mind that she was-

“I have to go.” The words tumbled out and his mouth felt numb with it: with the reality of it all. His mind was empty save the _objective_ because there was no making sense of a thing here. “She’s in the tunnel.” He’d figure out where: he just needed to look. It was all he could do-

“Wait, Oliver!” John shouted to him as he moved and-

 _Heavy_. He felt heavy. Too slow. _Blood loss?_

But he still looked back at John who was staring - alert and wide eyed and devastated - over to the west and managed to raise his good arm to point. “Look…”

Following his suggestion, he did just that.

Any remaining hope turned to despair.

The Glades were falling. Breaking – it looked, felt, like something was breaking.

Screams and shouts and cries scoured up the building to where he stood, and he’d never felt as unbelievably helpless before as he did in that moment. For all his skills and intents, there was nothing he could do to stop an earthquake; natural or not. Nothing he could do to plug a hole or fix a crack in the foundation. He just stood there.

Then, almost as soon as it started, it stopped.

The abrupt absence of the vibrations made his ears pop.

She’d done it.

Dumbfounded - panting, heart pounding - he searched over the city as if he might find her somewhere in the chaos because she-

“She did it.” Swallowing, he tasted nothing but dry air. “Felicity- she did it.”

Why was he saying it aloud? John didn’t need to hear him say it. Why was he surprised that her namesake rang true every single time? That she pulled through: she always pulled through. An unofficial member of his team for months, she’d only become an official component in February. Three months and he couldn’t imagine how they could do _this_ without her. She was a civilian. She was a 23-year-old woman who didn’t reach his chin height-wise, who couldn’t fend off a physical attack because unlike him and John, she preferred a higher grace of violence and it was something that relieved him. That she preferred to be behind the scenes.

Clearly not tonight.

She didn’t have a choice. He hadn’t given her one. Malcom Merlyn hadn’t either.

 _Nothing ever goes the right way_. After years and years of the _same_ , of squandered hope and crushed ideals, he knew that hope was a dream.

Or it _had_ been.

 _She did it_. All on her own.

He wanted to laugh. To start laughing and never stop, but-

“She said that Laurel was down there.” Punctuating the din of voices whispering the nonsensical and reeking of hysteria - of little sleep and stress - he heard John try to breathe without his injury becoming too much of a burden. “And her father?”

It didn’t matter. It was over. They could rebuild and fix anything broken.

And yet-

“Tommy.” Oliver said without meaning too as he stood gaping out over the city, thinking- always thinking.  

 _Laurel_. Tommy would have gone after Laurel. Was she okay? It was over but… what was the damage? Had anybody been hurt?

Had anybody been killed?

The whole point of this, of him and Diggle and Felicity, was to save as many lives as they could from a corrupt judicial system and immoral 1 percenters. Any death would be a painful recompense for this night.

And CNRI was in his direct line of sight: somewhere close was where the rioting had grown fierce. He could see the expanse of the Glades, could see the place where criminals were born, where good people lived with them, could see the take-out venue that was better than the Italian restaurant he’d frequented in the northern corner, and the places where he’d seen good things come from people who seemed barren of goodness.

That and every other person, every place and reason as to who and what didn’t deserve to die because of a mad man’s insane mission.

“I told her to get out.” Gasping when he had no reason to, Oliver felt stripped to his bones and pulled in several different directions; but didn’t understand why. “She didn’t listen.”

“Maybe Tommy went after her.”

“…Maybe.”

“Okay, well,” and what was John leading up to now, “we can’t stay up here.”

 _No, we can’t_. “We need to find Felicity.” It was imperative.

He wanted so much to see if Laurel was alright, if she’d been touched by this; he wanted to utterly avoid coming into contact with her because where there was Laurel, there was Tommy. And he’d just killed Tommy’s father. Eyes trailing to the side now, to see the body he’d just left there, it was a reminder of how much people could change. That once, many years ago, the man who’d been labelled as the Dark Archer, had been gentle. Caring. Loving. Tommy had called him daddy. And Oliver- he’d once been the kind of person you shouldn’t want to talk about in any good way so …maybe he hadn’t changed. He was still deplorable, just of a different sort. To save a city – what he thought was saving a city – he’d killed his best friend’s only parent. How could he be anything but _bad_.

How could he face Tommy?

Ignoring all of that, he stepped closer to Diggle. “If she deactivated the device it means she’s okay, but I’d feel better if we found her and-” Tapping at his ear, his com made such a sharp _sshhk_ noise that he had to wrench it out. “Dammit.”

“That’s _not_ good.”

It was so inappropriate, so understated of the situation and undermining how not good it could actually be, that Oliver snorted.

Nodding like he agreed, John peered up at him. “Look, I can’t…” he attempted a sort of shuffle on the floor and rose to one knee. “I _can_ walk, but running’s a whole other question.” He shook his head. “You should go. Make sure our girl’s okay. I’ll find a way down, then we can meet up and take it from there.”

“No,” he found himself saying, even though his head was screaming at him to just _go_ , “you need a hospital.”

“And you’ll take me on the back of your bike?” Straight-faced as he was, John made that notion sound ridiculous. “Leaving Felicity alone in,” he waved an arm over the rooftop, “this.”

Eyes closing on a wince, Oliver nodded. “Right.”

“Besides, do you honestly think Starling General is up to taking on more admissions?”

“I don’t think they’re even close to being done.” Both drained as they were, Oliver still managed to send John a firm look. “You still need the hospital.”

Squinting, John cleared his throat. “Did you forget the part where an arrow got shoved through your chest?”

“It didn’t pierce my lung. I’m fine.”

When he shrugged as if to prove a point, pain so fierce it burned - it felt like someone was sewing his insides together without anaesthesia - made his jaw twitch noticeably and eyes water.

The smile on Diggle’s face was appreciatively mocking and wearisome. “What a sorry pair we make.” He sighed. “Hopefully Felicity doesn’t make three.”

The reminder made Oliver’s stomach turn. “She’ll be fine.”

If she wasn’t, someone would pay.

Even if that someone was him.

 

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t find her.

_“Where’s my mommy?”_

_“We need help over here!”_

_“Don’t touch that- it’s not stable!”_

It was pure chaos: the damage might not be what it could have been but the people who lived in the Glades had been granted a very rude look into just how bad their lives really could be.

No one was coming to help them.

The rioting had made the police wary and the fire brigade couldn’t travel through the main road leading into the districts: the quake had caused a diagonal crack to fissure in it and any amount of heavy weight might open it further. Until they were sure, they’d have to find other ways in, and it was taking too long. _It_ was a nightmare.

It was the last thing on his mind.

_“Shouldn’t help be coming by now-”_

_“Someone help, please! I can’t find my-”_

_“Look if we push this together, we can clear some of the-”_

Jaw tight, Oliver pushed it all away; his bike full throttle. Weaving through the city’s inhabitants was taking too long, but he didn’t have a choice. The subway entrance was close by and going around the long way around might destroy what was left of his control-

“Laurel!”

The name, the shout, shocked him; made him look twice.

Made him swerve around and stop his bike.

Made relief slam into him.

…She was alright.

“Dad!” Staring from where he sat about fifty meters away, Oliver watched Detective Lance run to the brunette who looked dishevelled but uninjured outside of CNRI where Oliver had subconsciously sped past and it appeared untouched, though the inside might be a different story.

Still, she was alright. And he could see Johanna nearby. _Why?_ Knowing that the Glades were-

“Mr Lance.” Following at a much slower pace - as if to give the Lance family a modicum of piracy - was Tommy.

The sight of the blood on the shoulder of his crisp white shirt made Oliver stumble up off his motorcycle. _No-_

“Everyone got out.” Tommy was saying to Detective Lance as Oliver drew near, and maybe the damage wasn’t too severe because, though he was holding his arm, there was a tourniquet there and his voice was strained, blood wasn’t freely pouring from whatever wound he’d received. “She’s okay.” He added, gesturing to Laurel who was still in the circle of her father’s arms. Protected. Safe.

Felicity wasn’t.

 _Felicity_. Did anybody in the city care about her the way Quentin did Laurel? The way Tommy and Johanna - who he suspected had gone to CNRI for the same reason Tommy had, to get Laurel out - cared about her.

The way Oliver-

 _I care about her_.

It was different, the way he cared about Felicity. It was unlike anything he’d been used to feeling before her. He’d stopped trying to describe it.

But because he did, it made little sense to him – like many things this night – that whilst Laurel stood here surrounded by her father, Tommy, himself and Johanna; people who loved her and wanted her safe, Felicity _wasn’t_ surrounded by people who loved her.

There were _no_ people.

There was just-

_Me._

And he really needed to see her. Now. He couldn’t… _rest_ until he did. Couldn’t appreciate, fully, the peace he was witnessing, until he knew she was alright because she _had_ to be. He couldn’t fully make sense of anything, couldn’t focus until then. And he realised now why he was stood before Quentin and not Tommy, though Tommy had made him leave his bike.

He had to go. And Quentin had answers.

“Where is she?” Voice modulator active, he made all of them jump and look at him. He ignored each stare. “You were the last to see her.”

And on any other night, the juxtaposition of expressions and the irony of the difference between each, might have surprised him. How Tommy looked stunned and happy and afraid all at once at seeing him, the green hood who he’d called a murderer. At how Laurel took a breathless gasp at his appearance, stepping out of her father’s arms to look at him: neither trusting nor averse to his appearance. How Johanna gaped with her mouth open.

How Detective Lance practically tore away from the daughter he cared so much about. “I don’t know.” The words started to pour out. “I- she told me in get get clear of the tunnels just in case the quake caused a cave in.” Looking ten different kinds of upset, guilty and scared stiff for a stranger, Quentin licked his lips; his hand reached behind his head in the way desperate people sometimes did when they were feeling too much too soon. “But that was a while ago and… I don’t know where she is.” It was more gasp than voice and Oliver stared at the way Quentin’s eyes had begun to water. “I mean, it stopped. The machine stopped, but that means she’s okay right?” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice an octave. “She’ll be fine, right? She’s… _smart_.” And the way he said it, as if the word didn’t touch _her_ kind of smart because that kind of smart was the kind of smart that threw Quentin sideways: an alien level of smart.

It was the kind of thing that might have made Felicity laugh.

“Hell, she’s smarter than anyone I’ve ever met.” Quentin muttered and-

In his peripheral, Oliver caught Laurel shift. Caught her sending her father a look. Curious and confused and _frowning_ as Quentin continued.

“She’ll be fine.” Repeating and nodding and waiting for the Hood to give him something. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Eyes flickering to the shadow beneath Oliver’s hood, the detective took one large, uneven breath. “Yeah?”

Like, _chin up man_. And, _I need you to agree with me._

Chest heaving with… he didn’t know, Oliver began to realise that maybe Felicity - on a single night - had managed to make _this_ father, care about her. Of course, she had.

It had taken a single glance three and a half years ago for her to stay with him, after all.

The look in Quentin’s eyes wasn’t one he’d seen before. Like him, he had a feeling that the Detective’s perception - his view of the world - was undergoing ten or twelve radical alterations.

“I lost contact with her.” Oliver admitted and explained as fast as he could. “Interference from the machine. Did you have a com-link between you?”

Blinking - like he had no idea what that meant - Quentin swallowed. “A two-way radio. She was worried being underground would sabotage…” his eyes squinted, “something about the density of the- _something_ and- whatever! She gave me the walkie talkie and ah…” he swallowed and his voice… his voice shook. “I haven’t been able to establish a connection-”

Oliver was already striding away before the last word left the man’s lips.

Both her com and the radio.

Felicity was alone.

In the Glades.

In the middle of the night.

Without a way of establishing contact.

Ad he had no idea where-

“She had to have come out on the east side!” Quentin called after him, making him slow. Stop. Turn back. Wait. “Near the docks: there are only so many places to exit from underground.” Watching the detective’s hands reach inside his jacket - every single muscle unusually tense within his leather trappings, even for him - searching for something, the man continued in a rush. “I can call it in. There should still be a few officers in SCPD.” The man was already moving towards one of the many vehicles strewn in the aftermath. “I’ll start up a search-”

“Dad.” Hands lifting, a _what’s going on_ expression on her face, Laurel didn’t move from where she was. Maybe she understood that it wouldn’t mater if she did. “Dad, what are you doing? I don’t want you to leave.”

“Sorry honey.” Her dad said back to her; and he did look sorry, but resolute, “but there are people in this city who don’t have the luxury of being loved ones. They need help too.”

“We need to keep each other safe.” She answered back.

And maybe that hit Oliver harder than he would like. Who had he kept safe tonight by killing one man tonight?

A machine had been the real adversary.

“Yeah,” looking out over the car Quentin was about to _commandeer_ , Oliver saw him take in the lack of dead bodies and ruptures in the street, “the earthquake didn’t last long, did it? I’d say we’re pretty lucky considering a sociopath was hellbent on killing us all.” He sent his daughter a wan smile. “Safe as houses.”

Considering some of those houses were crumbling, it fell flat on Laurel. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“You’re going to the hospital.” Finger pointing, he gestured behind her. “He needs to get that looked at.”

And like she’d forgotten, Laurel twisted around to blink at Tommy’s arm. “Tommy…”

Tommy shook his head, speaking in a voice filled with pain. “I’m alright.”

He wasn’t, but Oliver didn’t have the time to enquire. Tommy wasn’t dying. Everyone was alive. Laurel hadn’t listened to him the first time and really, how did he expect her to? She’d never listened to him before. Not even when they were dating.

Not even now, after they’d slept together. After they’d made assurances.

He was beside his motorcycle in moments-

“Hey!”

“I have to _go_ Tommy.” Moving to raise the peddle, he was already mentally mapping out one of two exits that he knew off leading from the abandoned underground towards the docks when-

A hand appeared at his shoulder. “I just need a minute.”

He wrenched Tommy off as he turned. “I don’t have a minute!”

Not now. He wasn’t ready for this now.

And his shout - the modulator still functioning - made Tommy stop, made him jump.

Silence flooded the area.

“Ah…” Detective Lance shook himself, clearing his throat. “I’ll see you soon honey.” Before stepping into the car and gunning the engine.

As the man spoke mutedly into his cell, searching for a safe exit on the road - with his daughter watching - Tommy caught Oliver about to do the same. “Ollie!”

He was lucky, very lucky, that the car engine covered that.

Still Oliver shot Laurel a glance just to make sure and-

She was looking at them now but nothing in her expression told him she’d heard.

Still, “Tommy,” he growled under his breath.

“Sorry.” The wretched way Tommy said it told Oliver that he meant it. “For so much.” Breathing like he’d run a marathon - he really needed to go to the hospital - Tommy stood a step closer to him than the situation warranted, just so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “I need to talk to you.”

He felt his teeth bite something fleshy inside of his mouth. “Can this wait?” And Oliver wasn’t _trying_ to be a dick, but really; this needed to wait.

His friend needed him.

Staring at him like he’d never met _this_ Oliver before, and he hadn’t, Tommy spoke in an undertone. “No. It can’t.” Looking briefly over his shoulder, Tommy spoke in a whisper, “This is Laurel, Oliver. _Your_ Laurel.” Shaking his head as if he didn’t understand and he truly did not, Tommy continued: frowning and muddled. “She’s right there and you’re walking away?”

He was supposed to say one of two things. Either, _sometimes you have to make sacrifices for greater good_ or _she isn’t the only person in this city worth saving_.

“She’s isn’t the only person in this city who I care about.” Was what came out and… it wasn’t a lie.

He cared for Laurel. _Loved_ Laurel. But he could see that she was quite fine. She was uninjured. He’d seen her now; he could leave her easily and focus on the objective.

Doing this was slowing him down.

“I just-” exhaling, puzzled; Tommy shook his head and lifted his good hand. “I just thought that-”

“What?” It was a snap, but the _Hood_ had something he needed to do and was very ready to go do it.

It made Tommy look at Oliver for too long a time. There was so much there that Oliver wasn’t ready to digest: hurt. Grief. Betrayal. Love. Forgiveness. Compassion. Confusion. Sadness. Anger.

“What?” Oliver repeatedly, softly this time.

Tommy gave his friend a direct stare. “It’s Laurel. And she needs you.”

 _She never needed me_. “She’s fine.” She’d only wanted him. “But other people need me too.”

“She is the most important person in your life. You’re just going to leave her?” And he asked as if that didn’t make sense when it made _all_ the sense to Oliver, who could only frown at the structure of those two sentences. “You’re going to leave the woman you love in the middle of the Glades to go- _where_? Where are you even going?”

“Tommy-”

“The first thing she did when we got out of CNRI was check her phone to see if you’d called her.” 

Seeing said woman somewhere behind Tommy, trying to reason with her father who was already firing up his choice of vehicle, Oliver figured she’d been checking her phone every hour.

But.

“I told her to stay out of the Glades.” He informed Tommy who looked a little nonplussed at the share, at the firm way Oliver was talking. “I tried to warn you too but…” but Tommy had blocked Oliver’s number on his cell and after their altercation at Verdant, there hadn’t been a chance to even try. The reminder seemed to make Tommy lose a little of his steam. Tommy hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed him. _I can’t blame him for that_. “If I’d known she’d come here anyway, I would have done more.”

And that was all Tommy could ask for really. “It’s Laurel. We both have little to no credibility with her: there’s no chance she’d listen.”

 _Then why does she love me?_ “Why did she go back to CNRI?” Oliver couldn’t help but ask.

“I don’t know. Must have been important though, to risk herself like that.”

And it was past time he went looking for the other woman who hadn’t listened to him-

He immediately took back the thought. Keeping her safe hadn’t been his attempt to try to coddle Felicity or take away her choice.

Felicity Smoak could _not_ be a victim. Not ever. It was the condition on her joining his team. He would keep her safe. If there was one casualty forever free of his insanity, if there was one thing that he could _not_ fail to keep unharmed, it was her.

And she’d listened, _until_ her amazing intellect had found a solution that forced her into a danger zone.

A solution that revealed the pure goodness in her.

“There’s someone I need to look for.” Turning to his bike, he lifted a leg and straddled it fast enough to make Tommy _start_ in his peripheral. “She’s alone and I don’t know where she is: I have to find her.”

“Find _her_?” Blinking, as if gender had abruptly changed everything, his best friend looked genuinely offended. “Please don’t tell me that after _everything_ , you’re up to your old tricks-”

Head twisting to him so fast his neck _cracked_ , Oliver cut in. “This is _not_ six years ago.” The near-snarl had Tommy pulling back fast enough to hiss through his teeth when his shoulder clearly sent pain shooting through his bones. “I am not the same person I used to be. None of us are.” He took a breath he sorely needed. “I can’t do this with you now.” He was the Hood, not Oliver. “I came home with a mission and people got involved. I didn’t mean for it to happen,” but he wouldn’t change that it had, “but I won’t abandon them and this person, she-” he licked his lips, feeling himself start to glare at Tommy who was detaining him. “There is more to this than you and me.”

“Wow.” It was breathy and kind of stunned. It _wasn’t_ sardonic. He sounded awed. But Tommy was also deeply unsatisfied with him. Their friendship had grown tumultuous due to the differences that had raised a walled between them and every effort to be his usual self - positive and innocuous and ignorant - was awkward at best. “I… I’ll admit, I have tunnel vision. I came here to make sure Laurel was alright.” Shifting, he tried to look at his arm but flinched, winced and grimaced in that order. “Got a little banged up doing it but, hey; girls like scars.”

_I can’t be here right now._

Tommy was looking at this from the point of view of a man in love and Oliver-

Wasn’t.

It hit him like a brick. Why wasn’t he? He knew he loved Laurel, because when he thought the word love, her face-

 _Didn’t_ appear in his mind.

Was it because of his outlook? He was the Hood right now, not Oliver. He had a mission and he had to put it first. The problem was that he had no problem doing so, with casting aside his own feelings. Seeing Laurel alive and well was enough for him. He didn’t feel the need to go to her.

And he had no answers readily available. “Thank you for being here.”

Throat moving, “always,” Tommy pressed. “I still need to talk to you about-”

“There’s no time.” Revving the engine, Oliver leaned forwards on the bike. “Get to a hospital Tommy.”

“ _Wait_ -”

He didn’t.

And Laurel’s call of, _please_ , chased him down the block.

He didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

 

**24 hours later**

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep…_

It was haunting.

Repetitive. Beeping. Machinery substituting as a pulse.

He’d thought his name being screamed into the ether-

“ _Ollie!”_

 _“Sara… Sara!”_  

-As it was drowned by the inevitable tide of death was the worst sound in the world: it wasn’t. This was.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

The beeping. The silence following after each beep. The absolute lack of anything resembling hope. The void it leaves behind. And the white of it all- washed walls, bed, sheets; it made the feeling worsen. Colourless disconnection. It was wrong- not right- _something_.

And the _smell_. Burnt cleanliness, and an acrid copper tang; _inhuman_. Impersonal.

_Not her._

Sprawled on the chair farthest from the hospital bed - hands unmoving over the arms, legs apart, wide awake despite the sleep he hadn’t had in almost 48 hours, unblinking - Oliver stared at the occupant lying in it. He was listless and he’d been staring for a while.

All day.

All night.

Not a peep. Not a stir.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep-_

It was torture.

Wetting his lips, his throat moved. “Wake up.”

He didn’t sound right: like a pack a day nicotine addiction, one large whisky and no water or words for hours and it had been hours since he’d last spoken. Avoidance, maybe. He didn’t care.

It was too quiet and that wasn’t her at all.

There was a tube leading towards the needle in her arm and he knew she wouldn’t be okay with that. Knew needles scared her. It should have woken her up, the needle. The intrusion. It hadn’t, wasn’t.

Wouldn’t.

It seemed wrong somehow, the whole thing. Bad things happened in the world; he knew that better than most. Sometimes he caused the bad things – _was_ the bad thing. But it wasn’t supposed to ever touch _her_. **Silence** _her_. Yet, here she was. Silenced. Muted. On the bed.

With marks on her skin that told of a very bad night.

He shifted in the seat. _What happened to you?_

Every time he focused on them, the marks, it was close to what he imagined the fork edge of an iron hammer digging down into his abdominals felt like, before ripping the wall away clean from his body. Yet he tried to focus as often as he could. He did so as he breathed in through his nose and out again. As his Adam’s apple bobbed. Still unblinking. As unmoving as she was.

As pale.

Not bright eyed, rosy cheeked and smiling. Wan and lifeless and _hurt_. Not awake. Not talking alluring circles around them all.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

 _Without_ that: the stability that he hadn’t realised her voice had given him, until it wasn’t available anymore.

It made him close his eyes.

Only to hear-

_“If you’re not leaving, I’m not leaving.”_

Fingers quickly digging into his palms, the world spun.

 _“You need rest too.”_ She’d said once, after… Helena’s reappearance? _“Oliver-”_

“No.”

It was mulish and ingenuous and quiet and in the here and now, strange.

His eyes felt raw.

He needed sleep. Probably needed to eat something. Drink water. Get his stitches checked. There were people he needed to talk to, several, and he hadn’t.

But he didn’t get up, didn’t move. He’d see Dig later and the rest would come sooner than he’d like. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take just now, not in the sanctuary of her room. The _prison_.

It had been three days since the Undertaking, and she hadn’t woken up.

Felicity Smoak was in a coma.

The sentence didn’t make sense to him. Not now and not when the surgeon had informed him that the damage done would either heal… or it simply wouldn’t.

It was the worst outcome.

 _“All we can do is wait.”_ We. The doctor had said _we_ , like Oliver wasn’t alone: like other people were in this with him. Both were lies: he didn’t deserve the _we_. _“Either she’ll wake up or she won’t. The next 48 hours will be crucial to that.”_

Standing with the man in the hall outside of her door - as if the possibility of her being able to hear him, even in a coma, had driven him out of the room to talk - Oliver had shaken his head: dark eyed and scowling. _“What does that mean?”_

He’d known exactly what that meant.

 _“She took a pretty hard knock,”_ the doctor had started, exhaling as he stood firm; if exhausted, _“and from what we can see, she took more than one during the night.”_

During the night.

He hadn’t been there. Neither had Dig. There was an _hours_ long gap that needed filling. They didn’t know what had happened, just that she’d been found unconscious.

In the water at the docks.

And not by him.

But he’d looked. He’d searched throughout the night and into the day. He’d pushed back all his other priorities to search for the one person he’d promised to protect and hadn’t managed to. He’d searched until he’d run out of places to look, until fear started to take hold- started to choke him.

Until, desperate - still wearing his leathers: covered in dirt, sweat and blood and no one seemed to care when their homes were falling apart around them - he’d activated the com still pressed in his ear, because Diggle - who’d been admitted into the ER after Malcolm had stabbed him - had refused to take out his own.

 _“John, I’ve looked everywhere. I’ve looked_ twice _.” And because the idea of her being buried in the rubble he’d found deep into the eastern exit was too much to imagine, he asked. “Has the hospital-”_

_“Oliver, they found her!”_

_Everything stopped. “…What?”_

_“They found Felicity. Detective Lance called it in. She’s… I don’t know what’s happening, but she doesn’t look good. You need to get back here… Something’s wrong.”_

The words had made him go cold. He hadn’t warmed since.

There were too many questions. Too many without answers. _How did she end up by the water?_ Unconscious. Alone. At the docks and old warehouses, several blocks from the rioting that would have, ironically, kept her much safer than being a sole wanderer had.

And she _had_ wandered meaning… had she been injured? She wasn’t the type to risk that on a whim. Small, beautiful, unusual and alone: a prime target for the crooked. He should know.

He was one.

There was only one thing they knew for sure. _Head injury_. Like the one on her forehead, like something had fallen on her. _In the tunnel?_ It would have been enough to shake her foundations, enough to go walking into a dangerous night. Into the isolation of the southeast Glades. Separated from himself and Diggle, from Quentin…

Detective Lance had been stunningly affected.

A shock to walk back into Felicity’s room, only to find the man at the foot of her bed: devastated.

It had always been awkward between them - their history being what it was - but Felicity… she’d bridged a gap. Even sleeping, unconscious, she still did.

 _“I just- I had to see her for myself.”_ It was surreal: he thought he’d never see Laurel’s father tear up like that; that he’d just as soon pull a gun out on him than cry in front of him. _“She saved us. She… she saved us.”_

What else was there to say?

She’d gone above and beyond the duty of any member of the SCPD, of anyone in the city.

And then Detective Lance had said-

_“She shouldn’t be in that bed.”_

As if it was _his_ fault, when it wasn’t-

 _It’s_ _mine_.

He’d brought her into this. It was his choice to include her, to continue going to her for help. To bring her in. He shouldn’t have. It didn’t matter that he’d been in sore need of her skills; he should have gone on, alone… but he hadn’t. He’d _known_. He’d gone ahead and done it anyway. But there’d been no warning inside him, no issue with it; not the way he had concerns about John Diggle or _Tommy_. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d ever regret bringing her in and, really; he still didn’t.

He’d needed her help.

After she’d become part of the team, after he’d seen so much more of her, he’d found he’d needed her friendship too.

Her good opinion.

His violence, his darkness, and so many other things had made him sick like this before; but never his ego.

And she’d made it so easy to be approached and trusted with his secret and it wasn’t because she was naïve; she was too smart for inexperience to be a factor. Especially since she seemed surreally comfortable with his rationale, his crossing off names on a list like some sort of mission-based sociopath; even if she didn’t fully agree. And no, he hadn’t tried to charm her. He’d played a dangerous game, one that she’d immediately made safe. He’d had fun with it _because_ she’d given him that option. And he’d taken it slowly, but without pause; recourse considered and denied.

He’d needed to _not_ have something in his life that wasn’t bought through violence. He’d lied, but she’d known he was lying from the very start. On the surface it took away any and all liability on his behalf for her curiosity in him… curiosity he’d deliberately inspired in a young woman he’d known was bored in her job, was too smart to be an IT tech but seemed to enjoy having her mind occupied.

He’d given her a mystery to solve.

But he’d intended to wrap her around his finger. She’d destroyed that on their very first meeting, effortlessly. She’d simply been herself. He should have stepped away from the exposure, but it hadn’t made him nervous the way it should have. Hadn’t exposed him.

Somehow, she’d fitted right in; a third slot. There was no reason or rhyme to it: she just did, _does_.

So, not once had he thought to _un_ -screw her from him.

 _I’ve never been anything but selfish_. Now he knew he’d never changed at all. So, what if he’d taken the time, that he’d been careful; _this_ was the result. She was innocent. And his presence in her life had led to this.

 _“Oliver,”_ John had tried, _hard_ , to convince him otherwise, _“this isn’t your fault.”_ He’d tried from his own bed in another wing of the hospital. _“You did everything you could and that’s more than what the rest of the city did.”_ His reward for offering to help him, for sticking by him, was a knife in the chest. _“You stopped Merlyn-”_

 _“I_ killed _Malcolm.”_ The description made all the difference. A decade ago, those words would have been impossible to even think of. He’d killed Tommy’s father. How could he be anything but exactly what Tommy had said he was? A murderer. A killer. _“I didn’t save the people of this city. She did.”_ With her intelligence, her courage and her compassion. _“I just stopped a monster.”_ Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire: he was just a different kind of evil. _“And it didn’t accomplish anything.”_ Tired, stunned and achingly thrown by the events of the Undertaking - events a man he’d known since he’d made his first steps as a toddler, a man who’d tickled him into fits of laughter when he was five, had set into motion - Oliver hadn’t been able to spend more than a few minutes with John. Sitting down. Talking. Thinking. He’d _killed_ him. _“I didn’t protect her.”_

After he’d promised.

The reminder had quietened Diggle. _“She made a choice.”_ Subdued. _“And I made that promise with you.”_

Oliver remembered lifting his bowed head to look him in the eye and whatever Diggle saw in his face, had made him flinch. _“No, you didn’t.”_

It wasn’t a lie.

John had been against bringing in a civilian, genius or no, from the start. It wasn’t until he’d seen her fingers fly over keys, had seen her mop up Oliver’s blood after his mother had shot him, had realised that no camera – no interface or security system – was beyond her reach, that he could accompany Oliver in the field and have eyes on them and their surroundings the entire time, that he’d understood what Oliver had meant by bringing her in.

Not that Oliver had ever _explained_ why.

Regret was a copper tang he didn’t taste here. There was something else though, something painful and it seemed to heighten every other bad thing.

In all his years away, every death accrued, every nightmare that had unfolded before him… none of it met this feeling. It was brand new. Alarming. Inescapable.

People had died the night before. He’d seen death before, but this was at home. In Starling City. It was different.

Felicity was in a coma.

That would never be okay.

In the Glades, damages were accruing, injuries adding to a list that seemed unending; yet none of it had been anywhere near as high as they could have been. It was all a mess but the only reason why the city hadn’t gone straight to hell, why the death count wasn’t above double digits - _91_ \- was because of her and nobody knew. He couldn’t tell a soul that the 30 seconds the quake had lasted was almost five minutes less than it should have. There wasn’t a parade of people outside, waiting to pay tribute and offer libations to their saviour.

To their 5-foot, five-inch, nail polish wearing, coffee addict saviour. Without a hood. Without a bow or a gun or an earthquake device.

Just… faith. And intelligence.

None of it made sense. _It wasn’t supposed to go down like this; she was supposed to stay in the Foundry, she was supposed to-_

To do as she was told.

That wasn’t her. It never had been. He knew that; admired how much she was her own person. He’d never been able to order her to do a thing or intimidate her into doing a thing; she’d made sure he’d known that from day one.

He’d tried too. Intimidation. Manipulation. Coercion. Empathy. Deceit. Just to see what would happen. Each attempt had proved utterly ineffective.

None of it had prepared him for her leaving the Foundry.

_How do I live with this?_

No one had an answer.

Not John, who’s idea of processing was to accept the present in favour of a better future. Not his mother, who he was barred from seeing for the foreseeable future; who couldn’t possibly tell him anything he wanted or needed to hear right now given her involvement. Not Thea, who wouldn’t return to the mansion until she’d heard word from Roy Harper who looked to be a permanent if regrettable fix in his sister’s life for the present. Not Tommy… who he hadn’t seen since the night before. Who he knew was in the hospital for the next few days. Who must have watched the news by now.

The news featuring the death of his father, the instigator behind the attempted fall of the Glades.

They were in the same boat: hiding in different rooms, away from the paparazzi. From the public. They were the heirs to the dynasties of monsters who built their riches upon the soil of the oppressed, or that’s how the media had portrayed them in less than 24 hours.

The fact that Malcom was dead had only furthered the fire of those affected by the quake.

And Laurel - her messages and texts left unanswered - was _hurt_. Rightfully. Curious, hurt and extremely doubtful of the man who’d promised to be different but who’d, after one night together, remained as elusive to her now as he’d been for the last six months.

Oliver had no idea how to change that without lying. Again. And he could lie. It would be easy. He was good at it. But it would defeat the purpose of starting something the way they had. _Re_ -starting.

The way they… Had.

It felt different in hindsight. He didn’t know why. It was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead of feeling that rush of pleasure, those initial thrills of finally getting what he’d been eager for, a new hope that he was moving in the right direction - a clean direction - for the first time since well before the Gambit sank, Oliver only felt the heavy stone sitting uncomfortably tight in his stomach.

That and, wrong.

_Bad._

Again, he couldn’t pinpoint why.

All he knew was that he’d chosen a hell of a time to make future plans. He’d rushed and in so doing, he’d hurt Tommy. Again. He’d hurt Laurel with his distance, distance he couldn’t begin to explain.

Worst of all, he couldn’t find it in himself to care about it the way he was supposed to.

He did care, _I do_. But it was muted. It was secondary.

What he needed right now - what felt primary - was for Felicity to wake up. He needed her to… give him a direction.

And he needed her to be _okay_.

A man with a bow was the last thing the city needed, but he had nothing else to offer.

_I can’t help them. I can’t help anyone._

But she could. And she was sleeping.

 _Sleeping beauty_.

When the sun started to rise, he left. He had to. If she didn’t wake in the next twenty-four hours, the chances of her waking at all were impossible to determine and that wasn’t something he could fathom.

Or accept.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d aimed to talk.

The moment he’d entered Dig’s room, he’d tried for words. Tried to start with something; anything concrete. Instead his feet had taken him over to the window, only to stand there silently as the sun climbed. As life… continued. As the world turned.

He didn’t present a good picture.

After twenty minutes of nothing, John exhaled from where he lay on the bed.

“No change?”

“…Nothing.”

Felicity was still in a coma. Nothing new to report.

“Don’t you know the saying?” John eventually cut through a second bout of silence. “No news is good news.”

“I’d prefer _any_ news over waiting.”

It was an enemy unto itself. Made him impatient. Made him itch and think- think _too_ much. Made him second guess every decision he’d ever made, creating new nightmares on top of old ones just because he could. Made him see truths he hadn’t wanted to see or hear. Made him remember what he needed to forget.

At least this wait had a time limit.

“What about you?” He asked because he couldn’t talk about it anymore without wanting to throw something. Or sleep. And dreamless sleep was for the just. “What did they say about how long you have to stay here?”

He’d have left by now. Choice given or taken; it wouldn’t have mattered. Sitting still… that was impossible for Oliver.

But John look tired. “I’m pretty good, though I have another week to go before my nurse will let me loose. I managed to barter her down.” He lifted two fingers and smiled. “it would have been _two_ weeks, if not more. I think she likes me.”

The attempt at humour fell flat on Oliver. He couldn’t take it in. “That’s good.”

“Not really. Still, I’m tired.” Settling back into his four pillows, John sighed. Again. “Could use the extra hours.”

Considering those hours had been spent chartering around a good for nothing who’d failed, Oliver completely understood. John really had wasted his time. “John, I’m-”

“Don’t even think about apologising to me.” Succinct, blunt and as perceptive as usual; brown eyes told him to cut the shit. “This year…” as if he’d been endeavouring to find just the right words, John seemed to lose. “What we’ve been doing gave me a purpose and a focus I haven’t felt since Afghanistan. I wouldn’t take back the choice I made to join you.”

“Save me.” Oliver wearily reminded him.

Nodding, “That too,” John’s eyes, despite his obvious need to rest and recuperate, were as determined as ever. “I wasn’t born in Starling, but it became my home before I went off to war. I came back to find it a stranger. One I couldn’t trust or depend on. And then some rich guy with an attitude and a few screws loose, tells me he wants my help to rid the city of a criminal elite who don’t care who they crush on their way to power. Somewhere along the way, we started targeting the kind of scum that don’t come from money or privilege… not sure when or why-”

“When Felicity joined.” Oliver filled in the blank, settling back against the wall. “That’s when we started expanding.”

“…Didn’t we start doing that after the Royal Flush Gang created a scene?”

Nodding, Oliver lifted his hands to scrub down his face. “She made an argument for us to start chasing criminals who weren’t on the list and to do it weekly.” Rubbing his eyes, he brought them down to cradle the back of his neck as he remembered that moment in time. “She was persuasive.”

Diggle hummed. “That she is.” He took a moment before adding. “You look tired.”

Oliver snorted, his eyes closing as he answered. “That’s because I am.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“…No.”

“Did you even try?”

“Yes.”

“What stopped you? And no more monosyllabic answers.”

“I close my eyes. I dream. The things I see keep me awake for longer than I’ve slept.” _Making me more tired_. And more irritable.

More constrained and more likely to slip up.

“Were you in her room all night?” Dig ventured quietly.

“I didn’t realise I was until the sun started to rise.” Hands falling, Oliver looked into nothing. “If she doesn’t wake by dawn tomorrow…”

“We’ll worry about that,” still quiet, John managed to be gentle and firm at the same time; as if he sensed how much Oliver needed both, “ _if_ the time comes to worry about that.”

_I failed her, John._

_She wouldn’t have been down there if I’d realised that Malcolm was secondary._

_If I’d seen things more clearly, if I’d been better, this wouldn’t have happened._

_I should never have brought her into this._

_I was supposed to protect her._

“Yeah.” He found himself whispering instead. Swallowing. Nodding. Unable to say any of that.

“Go home Oliver.” John said. “Shave. Get a shower. Sleep. Eat something. She’d be pissed if she found out you were neglecting yourself,” he added, “ _especially_ if she’s the reason.”

Time seemed to flow supernaturally; blending the past, present and future together because he blinked and found himself out of Felicity’s home. A rented, single storey house in a relatively quiet, quaint neighbourhood where nobody noticed anyone or anything.

The perfect place to hide.

 _Why was she always doing that?_ He wondered as he walked towards her door. _Hiding._

But he knew the answer, had always known the answer. Had used it initially, in the hopes of getting what he needed.

Felicity was both near-preternaturally aware of how her intelligence was a weapon all on its own just as much as she was _unaware_ of how she attracted the darker things in life. Light often does that. And maybe she’d intuitively known, even if she couldn’t consciously acknowledge it and had tried to dim that light.

 _Except_ , he didn’t have a spare key but she’d told him and Diggle once that she kept one between the bricks at the bottom left-hand side of the door for emergencies, _light that bright can’t be contained_. Bits came through in the colours she wore, the language she used, the kindness and natural compassion that was overwhelming at times and it could be astounding how she didn’t see that either, because she’d closed herself off to it. To praise, gratitude and pride from others.

Felicity loved herself: he could see it in how she’d decorated her living room, in the colour and cleanliness and oddities she kept that reminded him of spring and rain and the smell of a forest after a storm. Beauty.

Natural beauty.

But she didn’t think anyone else would see that in her, which was strange to him when it so obvious.

Standing in the middle of her living room, he felt oddly comfortable with himself. Unafraid to touch and move and look. But he didn’t touch, he barely moved… he did look.

 _Why am I here?_ Why wasn’t he at home doing what John told him to do? Why wasn’t he anywhere else?

Maybe the answer was sitting on the table: a small white box with his name hastily scribbled on the front of it.

Frowning, he took three steps towards the table and stared down at the square box. The writing was Felicity’s. Had she… was this something she’d wanted to give him-

He caught the soft scent of lemon and vanilla coming from within.

Gut tight for some reason, his index fingers moved before he told them to; lifting the lid.

He paused; heart pounding, which was absurd. It wasn’t a threat.

It was a cake.

A small, circular lemon cake: the sponge looked soft despite being left on her counter and the buttercream frosting was a creamy sight. Over the top of this sugary confection was his name: elegant stripes of pink spelling out O. L. I. V. E. R.

There was a little… arrow, just beneath.

It crossed through a tiny love heart.

She hadn’t made it: she’d told him she couldn’t cook, but her personality was written all over it. So she’d bought it and by the smell alone, she’d paid a small fortune for it to be catered with just the right amount of lemon, for it to be tasty but not tart, enough vanilla to be smooth but not overpowering and twice the amount of icing because – like her – he believed that a good cake should have more icing than advertised. He didn’t typically like cake, but of he _had_ to have cake, this cake would do.

But it sat there in the box because he was too busy staring at it, because something inside his rib cage felt it was expanding. Painfully. Pushing upwards, rising in his oesophagus.

It was the kind of cake made for someone who’s cared about. Designed for someone who’s loved.

By someone who loves _him_.

“ _Ah_ -” The broken breath made by the lump now at the back of his throat, had his eyes closing against the wave he felt growing there and his hands lifted; fingers pressing into the lids.

She’d found out his birthday was yesterday, the 16th. This was his birthday cake and… there just hadn’t been time.

Hands dropping, he breathed in through his nose and out again as he took in once more the whip of white and the pink stripes.

The love-heart with an arrow shot through it-

Striding over to the drawers in her kitchen, he unhurriedly pulled open each; trying to find her utensils and returned with a delicate looking fork, come spoon. A spork _. Of course, she’d have a spork_. It was Felicity: she’d have sporks.

Reaching into the box, he lightly pressed the spork into the sponge and it really was that soft and fluffy- something he remembered Raisa telling him years ago - when a cake made just for him was the highlight of a boring day at school - was a good thing, and brought back a large slither of the cake and icing to put in his mouth.

He slowly chewed, tasting the different textures before swallowing it down.

“…It’s perfect.”

He reached in again for another taste.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr Oliver?”

Showered and shaved, he’d managed about four hours of sleep before nightmares woke him; only this time, the nightmare had been a void. A black hole. There was no gunfire, no blood, no Malcolm Merlyn, no Tommy or Laurel or nay of the number of things he’d seen and experienced in the five years away from Starling.

Just a never-ending absence of something that had discomforted him enough that he brought himself into wakefulness.

So, he probably didn’t look refreshed when he turned to his once nanny and field-mom. “Hi Raisa.”

He’d been stood in the kitchen with a glass of water, but he hadn’t realised how long he’d been gazing into space. He was probably worrying her.

The wan smile he managed at seeing that worry in her expression, made the softness of her face pull at the edges. She was pushing sixty, but she looked and behaved ten years younger and he was grateful for that.

He wasn’t grateful for how the events of the last few days had affected her and, seeing the travel bag she’d placed on the floor behind her, it hit him just how much he tended to miss when he was engaged elsewhere. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m…” since when did Raisa hesitate like this? “I’m visiting my family: my sister and her children. It’s been too long.”

The timing, however, was too close to be a coincidence. “Is this because of mom?”

“No.” Sighing, hands crossing over themselves, she amended her answer. “Not completely. As my employer, Mrs Queen has always been very generous. She has contingencies set in place in case something should ever happen to her: I am not without means.”

Money. His mother had, thankfully, made sure Raisa had enough money following her incarceration that she wouldn’t have to worry. Much.

“Then,” he frowned, but it was a tired one filled with confusion, “why are you…”

Leaving.

And the look sent him was one filled with indulgent affection. “I haven’t seen my family in several years, Mr Oliver.” And he’d always loved how her accent weaved that fondness around his name. “I think now would be a good time to do so.” Taking a breath, she looked quietly about her. “Mr Steel no longer lives here; Miss Thea frequents home far less these days and you are practically invisible.” But she was smiling and her tone, gentle. “My work is barely a third of what it was. No, this is the right time.”

He found himself swallowing at the sincere care in her face. “Will we see you again?”

“Yes. I promise you.”

When she reached for a hug, he was ready for her.

He was not ready for the numbness to grow heavier than it had been. For it to feel like dead weight. For it to beckon to him to go to sleep and not wake as the foundations in his life slipped away, piece by piece.

“You made this place home for me.” Before the island and after his return. “Thank you.” He whispered into her hair: she was much shorter than he was and a small part of him missed the way she couldn’t shield him from the world anymore.

She had to leave. She couldn’t become another victim.

“You are as much family to me as my sister.” She responded just as quietly; her hold on him, strong for someone half his size. “Never forget that.”

 

* * *

 

 

The lift opened to Tommy’s floor in the hospital.

And to the second person Oliver wasn’t ready to speak to yet.

“Ollie.” Laurel whispered when she saw him, and maybe she’d been waiting for him because her head had whipped towards the shuddering of the elevator doors as they closed, before he’d even stepped through them.

Swallowing down what he felt were a number of inane platitudes that fell short of what she needed to hear, he tried to smile. It hurt his face.

But it was enough for her.

Sniffling - she’d stood from her chair the moment she’d seen him - Laurel ran to him, holding onto him tightly when she reached him. “Where have you been?” Her voice was high and fragile as her arms moved around his shoulders, as her face pressed against the side his. “I called you and… Ollie?”

“I’m sorry.” The words were barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make you worry more.” Sighing, his hand cupped the back of her head; giving her the kind of comfort she deserved, though it too seemed to fall short, despite the way she sighed into his hold on her.

“It’s alright.” She assured him and… how could it be?

Tommy was in the hospital.

The Glades were even more of a mess than when he started ticking names off his father’s list.

Tommy’s father was dead.

Her job at CNRI was on the fence, given the state of the building.

How could it be alright? How was she not angry at him?

Swaying in his hold - he had no compulsion to follow a current he didn’t feel - she added. “You’re here. Everything will be fine now.”

How could she say that, think that? There was nothing good about him being there, nothing he could do to make this better. He’d returned with a goal in mind and now everything was a mess; what had he achieved? _Had_ he achieved anything?

Or had he just made things worse?

And then the things she didn’t know: the fact that he was to the blame for Malcolm’s death. The fact that _he_ was this violent vigilante she’d shown to feel fear for, even when warring with her admiration and trust.

The fact that he couldn’t be real with her, even now; even after that night. He couldn’t tell her that his friend was in a coma and that he didn’t know if she’d wake up, because to do so would reveal what he really was and… he didn’t want her to know.

He’d tried in November to connect with her through his alter ego, not so that he could share with her his identity. Just to connect. To reach her in some way. It had backfired.

She would never be touched by that side of him. The side he might not be able to let go of.

The side that had, after Felicity had been found, gone _hunting_ in the area she’d been located in. For a clue, for anything.

He’d found the body of a young woman, no older than Felicity. She wore a Big Belly Waitress pinafore. Her clothes were ripped, her face bloodied and bruised. Her pants undone.

It told a story.

That Felicity had been close by had sent undiluted rage and terror through him. He’d made sure to ask the doctor if they’d found anything to indicate… they hadn’t. But the coincidence was too large, and he hadn’t rested until he’d found the scum who could do that to a person.

Discovering four dead bodies half a mile from were Felicity had been found, had simply added to the chaos. Killed during the night, their deaths were too clean for it to be at the hands of a rival gang or group. All he knew was that he hadn’t been there, for either Felicity or the girl he’d found. He couldn’t muster the curiosity it took for him to figure out just who had done it.

 _The cops should have found them by now_. The bodies. Not being the one to dispose of them had left him feeling strangely unsatisfied.

He couldn’t tell Laurel any of this. There was still a wall between them. And he didn’t want to break it down.

It was a problem; he was sure it was.

He was by no means fluent in the art of keeping a stable relationship, but he knew one that started on a foundation of lies, was one doomed to break. If that was true, how could he justify going to her that night? Why had he rushed?

And yet, he’d made everything fine for her. Just by walking into the hospital. Just because he was there.

She truly loved him.

Pulling back but not away, her lips were pressing against his before he could think of a way to respond. “Missed you.” She said with a smile that spoke nothing of their current situation, though it hit him that, to her, their ‘situation’ didn’t involve what had happened in the Glades or Tommy or _any_ of it. To her, they were a them and as long as they were together, everything was fine.

He just looked at her.

He didn’t, _couldn’t_ , see it the same way.

And when he tried to smile in return, he managed this time to pull it off because she deserved at least that effort. “How is he?”

She pressed in again for another kiss onto his cold lips and guilt pooled in his stomach. “The doctors say he’ll have to stay for the week.” Like Diggle. “A hole in the shoulder takes time to heal, apparently.”

The attempt at humour was a tired one, but her smile lit her up from the inside as she kissed him again. And again.

But he wasn’t fully paying attention.

A hole.

Tommy had a hole in his shoulder. From what?

So, when she stopped, he immediately asked. “What happened?”

Looking at him, her entire body seemed to slouch in his hold, and she sighed before her eyes fell. “He was saving me. He pushed me out of the way as part of the roof almost fell on me. It hit him instead of me.” Her throat moved. “He saved my life. _Tommy_ saved my life.”

“Of course, he did.” Tommy had saved her life, had been able to, because he’d put her first. Not Oliver, Tommy. “He loves you.”

She stared at his clavicle.

Nothing was fine here.

They’d slept together, betraying him. And he’d still-

“I need to see him.” Affected, his voice was more gravel than anything else. “Alone.”

Finally, she blinked up at him. “…Okay.”

There was a lack of understanding in her eyes that made him take the time to read her face until he abruptly got it. He’d stated, alone. She didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want to be without him any longer than she had been.

Three days ago, they’d slept together. Since then, he’d been a hard lesson for any girlfriend: could she trust a man she’d only seen twice since then? And one of those times, she hadn’t known it was him.

She didn’t want to talk about that, she didn’t want to ask. She just wanted time with him.

They hadn’t really discussed what sleeping together could mean; he’d just wanted to leave behind the ugliness of what he’d become and take back what he’d given up and broken. They hadn’t had their morning after breakfast or their first date. And they weren’t going to.

Disappointment screamed out at him and, as he stepped away from her and walked towards Tommy’s room - as her arms fell off him and she watched him go, forlorn and a little sad - a small voice inside his head, told her to get used to it.

 _She already is_. And he hated himself for that.

 

* * *

 

 

“You killed him.”

What else was there to say?

“Tommy, I-”

“You promised me that you’d try not to. That you’d do everything you could.”

“I did.” _I promised_. “Malcolm was very skilled: I tried-”

“So, how come he’s dead and you’re still here? If he was so skilled, how come _he’s_ dead? If you were able to… to kill him, how come you couldn’t _not_?”

Fights were never that simple. “It’s never that simple. Things don’t always go the way they’re planned.”

“And now I don’t have a father.”

Tommy’s words were crushing him.

“I _never_ meant for things to come to this.” He could barely speak: the hatred and grief and hopelessness coming off Tommy was unbearable. “I didn’t want this.”

“Funny how the things we don’t want to happen, happen.”

Sat up on his bed, Tommy wouldn’t look at him. His shoulder was bandaged, his painkillers amped up; he was fighting sleep just so he could say the words. Just so he could let his friend know how much heart he’d broken. And he did it all whilst watching the news feed form the monitor sat beside the window. Not the most advantageous location but it made it so that Oliver couldn’t fully see his face.

It didn’t matter.

Oliver could still see the tear that fell off Tommy’s chin, dropping down on the duvet that was tucked about him. It coated his voice when he spoke again.

“I really do wish you’d died on that island. My dad would still be alive. Laurel would love me instead of a man who puts her second, who _lies_.”

“Tommy, please-”

He couldn’t speak. The words were breath and a useless whisper that fell alongside that single tear. His own eyes were too raw to cry, but he felt like doing just that.

“What was the plan there, hero?” The mocking tone was so unlike Tommy, it hurt even more to hear than him saying he wished Oliver had died. “Say a convincing line, fall into bed with her, tell her you’re a changed man, make her think you mean it and then put on your leather suit and go kill my dad? Bet she’d love you for that. Seriously, I bet she would. I bet she’d forgive you for just about anything-”

Sliding down the wall he leant upon, Oliver buried his face in his hands and listened because he deserved to hear every word.

“-If you told her you were the Hood. Man, you’d reel her in quicker than a fish to live bait. It’d be you and Laurel against the world and she’d never have a bad word to say about you again. You know, until you sleep with someone else. Or kill _her_ father. Wouldn’t put it past you. Hero… Jesus, you’re not a hero. What changed about you, bestie? What made it so that you could become a man who could kill my _father_? Orgasms and murder. You know what 50% of the city is calling you? A serial killer. I mean, if the shoe fits… what happened to lazy Ollie Queen would couldn’t hurt a fly? I don’t see that guy anymore. You’re this stranger. A pod person, whose taken over my best friend’s body and I’d like him back please. Can you do that? Can you bring him back? _That_ guy would never betray me. He wouldn’t kill my dad. He wouldn’t have slept with the woman he knew I loved after making a case that morning for me to go to her. I mean, did you plan that? So that I’d see? You’re timing was _impeccable_. Bravo. Fear not, I’ll never again consider myself your equal in Laurel’s eyes.”

The near silent shudders from Oliver as his shoulders shook, didn’t reach him.

“You’ve been back eight months and look at everything you’ve managed to destroy? My dad, me and Laurel, our friendship- I’m seeing a pattern. _I_ get fucked while you fuck my girl. I’m _impressed_. I hope it was worth it _Ollie_ , I really do; though I doubt you’ll pay for it. She loves you so much, she’ll probably be thrilled that you kill people because you’re the _big_ cheese of Starling City and you know Laurel. She’s always wanted to make waves. You could help her do that. She’d be your slave for _life_. She’d be wearing a mask right beside you in no time, not that I’d let that happen because unlike you, I actually care about what happens to her as opposed to caring about some friend wandering the Glades-”

“My… my friend’s in a coma-”

“You deserve that too. She’s in a coma because of you- you sleep with her? On the same night you were with Laurel or before? You’ve never cared about women you don’t sleep with. _You_ don’t do friends when you can do sex… I think I hate you. I’m not like this: I don’t talk like this or feel like this, so it means that I hate you. You shouldn’t have come here. I don’t want to talk to you; I don’t want to see you and I don’t want to hear your voice. You killed my dad. I’m a 28-year-old orphan. Little orphan Tommy. And I have my best friend to thank for that. You should have never returned home. It’s all gone to crap. Your mother, my dad. We come from a generation of bad people who do bad things for _commerce_. For secrets. For lies. For power and vengeance, and you’re just like them… Get out. I want you to go.”

He did.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oliver… Oh my _god_ , Ollie-”

“Please-” Hands up to ward her off, Oliver sidestepped her because the last thing he could stand was a hug from the person he was supposed to never lie to and had. Repeatedly. “I have to go.”

“Go where?” She reached for him again. “Why do you look like that?” Like he’d just had his heart cut out of his chest with the spork he’d eaten cake with that morning. Cake he hadn’t deserved to taste. “What happened-”

“I can’t… talk about this now.” And he sounded dreadful, probably as dreadful as he looked. Felt. Deserved to feel. “I can’t be here.”

“But _I’m_ here.” And for the first time, Laurel’s tone became firm. “Why do you keep running away from me?”

 _I don’t want to be here._ “I’m sorry Laurel.” Stepping into the lift as the doors opened, he sent her a look of deep apology. “I can’t do this.”

He couldn’t be here any longer.

Even if that meant leaving her there.

The doors slid shut on her shock.

_I’m sorry._

_I failed._

_And I don’t know how to fix it._

 

* * *

 

 

In the hours between midnight and dawn, he called Thea.

_“Yeah, I’m okay Ollie. I found Roy, so I’m safe. We’re just helping some of the people here, but I’ll be going to the mansion tomorrow. WITH him, so no overprotective big brother duty when you see us, capuche?”_

Something he’d never get anywhere else was the simplicity of a connection that could never die. It gave him a reprieve from the waiting, from hearing Tommy’s words echoing through his mind like knives thrown and circling for a re-strike.

Vitriol.

Tommy had never sounded like that before.

 _I did that_. He’d changed his best friend. Made him feel hate. Made him suffer. Made him regret having ever been his friend.

What did with that knowledge? How was he supposed to live with himself?

He’d sought shelter, _sanctuary_ , in Felicity’s hospital room: away from the paparazzi, from the noise and from the stares of those who recognised him.

He sat in his chair and waited…

 

* * *

 

 

“…Sometimes this happens.” Shining a light into each pupil, the doctor pulled back from Felicity who lay on the bed. Still silent. Still in a coma. “Her pulse is steady and reacting normally to stimuli-”

“Then why isn’t she awake?”

He didn’t growl it, didn’t snap, wasn’t angry. He was tired and sore and quiet.

But he’d known she wouldn’t wake up.

His life didn’t have miracles in it. Good things didn’t happen to the people who chose to side with him. It was his fault.

“We don’t know.” The doctor admitted. “We can’t always be certain and now, unfortunately, it’s a guessing game. She could still recover.”

“Or she could be in a coma for the rest of her life?”

“I think we can be a little more hopeful than that-”

“But you aren’t sure?”

“…No.”

It was an infection: _he_ was an infection. That’s what this felt like.

His best friend hated him, truly hated him. He’d pulled the trigger on a new relationship with Laurel without being honest and could never be honest. John was in a hospital bed and couldn’t see Carly or his nephew. And Felicity hadn’t woken up.

 _Tommy was right. I shouldn’t have come home._ What had he managed to achieve in trying to right his father’s wrongs? _I failed you too dad._

Once the doctor left, Oliver stepped closer to her bed. At the foot of it, he took her in.

The rising sun lit her up, as if she were born from it and it was calling her home-

“Don’t go home yet.” He said aloud to her sleeping face, unwilling and illogically. “Felicity…”

She didn’t stir.

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

_I’m sorry._ Hands bracing on the brackets at the bottom of her bed, Oliver sucked in a shuddering sigh.

“I believe in magic because I’ve seen it.” The whisper was so random, he wondered if the words had been there all along; waiting. “I didn’t _need_ to see it to believe in you.”

Minutes later, when the orderly came to check her bedding, Oliver Queen had vanished, leaving nothing behind to indicate he’d been there at all.

 

* * *

 

It took one hour for him to transfer money into her account, more money than deemed wise but she deserved it, if she ever woke to use it. He did the same for Diggle.

He was leaving. Running. And he was doing it without saying goodbye, because he didn’t want to be convinced to stay, and he couldn’t be.

Felicity was in a coma.

And-

_“Get out. I want you to go.”_

Rucksack in place, he handed over his passport and waited for the all clear in the busy airport. Destination: China. Purgatory.

What he deserved. The only place he truly understood how to live in and navigate. How to not cause pain to the people he cared most about.

He’d told Thea he was going way for a long while and he was pretty sure she thought he was skiing in the alps somewhere with some Russian model. He’d called Diggle, who’d warned him to stay put so that he could find him and teach him a thing or two about how much of an idiot he was.

 _“Thank you for trying.”_ Oliver had said before hanging up.

He’d sent Laurel a letter, because no letter, no words and no sweet speech could ever explain how he truly felt but he owed it to her to try.

_Laurel,_

_I’m sorry._

_You were always the best part of me; you never saw the worst parts, or you ignored them. I took your picture that day at the docks knowing your sister was onboard and waiting for me. You shouldn’t want me Laurel. But you love me anyway. How could anyone not love you?_

_Please, take it back._

The picture.

_I never deserved it, but I kept it with me. You, your picture; it gave me the strength on the island to survive. But I feel that I only trampled on those feelings you were willing to have for me. We betrayed Tommy, Laurel. We did exactly the kind of thing you despise._

_I will always love and care about you._

_But I can’t be near you right now. I can’t be with you. I don’t know how to make it work the way you deserve. I can’t feel what you want me to feel when all I can feel is guilt._

_I have a friend in the hospital. She’s hurt. She’s in a coma. She might never wake. And it’s because she was trying to help me. I can’t seem to do the right thing for doing wrong and the idea that she might never wake has coloured everything._

_Find someone else. Find someone who can love you the way you deserve. Find someone who would be there every time you needed me._

_Find someone who wouldn’t run away._

_Like Tommy never ran._

_Please take care of each other. Forget I ever came back._

_Goodbye._

_Oliver._

It wasn’t good enough, but it was small change compared to what he couldn’t say to Felicity Smoak.

…

..

.

Days later, the very moment that Oliver Queen stepped upon the shores of Lian Yu, Felicity Smoak woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next story will be lighter than this. Funnier too. Darker. Sexier.  
> REVIEW, I BEG OF YOU!!  
> FEEEED MEEEEEEEEEEE.

**Author's Note:**

> There's just no way in hell I'd ever have her be raped. NO. I did take this from the 1.5 comics; there were a pack of rapists around that night and it affected Oliver in a big way.  
> Also, this is the start of my attempt to rectify certain things... like say, the understandable but over-the-top protectiveness and chauvinism that had Oliver/Diggle keep Felicity in the Foundry and away from hard decisions, from the tougher parts of a fight that didn't always involves fists but morality movements because it also made them miss other things. It wasn't fully faced until 5.19 and um, NO. And I'll be facing Felicity's idea of strength and why she used to think that Oliver could never see her the way she saw him... and how wrong she was in that assumption.  
> Chapter 2 and the final part: Oliver's pov.


End file.
